Anthology Galleons and Gangplanks

Galleons and Gangplanks

by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

Torquere Press

www.torquerepress.com

First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2007

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Galleons and Gangplanks

by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

Searching the Seas by Sean Michael
The White City by Julia Talbot
Fool's Gold by Mychael Black
Of Boats and Blue Beards by Willa Okati
Contributors

Galleons and Gangplanks

by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

Searching the Seas
By Sean Michael
Abraham Sawyer strode through the streets of St-Mary's,

following little James Goodman as the boy ran over the
cobblestones on Main Street. He took a right at Cobbler Lane,
his boots kicking up the dirt. Sure enough, there were James
Sr. and Joseph Smith, nose to nose and shouting loud enough
the angels in heaven could hear them.

It looked as if they were about to come to blows any

minute now, and Goodman was a good deal skinnier than the
bulky Smith and likely to get badly hurt. Abraham knew
Smith would be sorry for any damage he caused in the heat
of their battle, but by then it would be too late.

"Gentlemen!" He went right up to them and put a hand on

each of their shoulders. "Whatever the problem is, I'm sure it
could be settled in a much quieter manner."

He stood nearly a whole head taller than Goodman and a

half head taller than Smith, and both men had to look up to
him. Being a big man definitely was a boon when it came to
keeping the peace.

Goodman's lips were pursed tightly together, even as

Smith's blew out on an angry sigh. They both opened their
mouths to speak at the same time.

"One at a time, one at a time, gentlemen. I might have

two ears, but they work better if they listen together."

Smith's lips actually twitched a little at his words and

Abraham knew that it would be easy enough to sort this out.

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by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

"How about we let James Goodman tell me his side, and then
you may tell me yours, Joseph Smith."

Smith actually nodded and he and Goodman moved to

stand a bit apart.

"He," Goodman looked pointedly at Smith, "and I had an

agreement. I would keep his shoes, his work gloves and his
leather apron in good repair, and he would provide my
cobblery with heat. Over the last few days, he has not."

"But James, I haven't had the custom to warrant having

the forge on, and it's warm days still!"

"Mornings have been very chilly lately, Joseph, and the

family and I have had icicles on our noses the last three
mornings." They were talking to each other again, the words
bordering on yelling.

Abraham stepped in before it got worse. "Smith, did you

agree to provide warmth only if you had custom for your
forge?"

"Well ... No."
"And Goodman, did you agree to when exactly the warmth

needed to be provided? Times of the day, and what have
you?"

"No, but—"
Abraham held up his hand, cutting off further protest.

"Well then, I believe a new agreement is called for. You have
both benefited from sharing your skills in the past, I suggest
you find a way to make it continue to work now."

"I don't want to run my forge for no reason!"
"Well, I can't be repairing your apron if my fingers are

frozen!" Goodman looked like the back end of a plucked

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by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

chicken, the way his mouth tightened up and his eyes went
beady.

"Now, now. If you're only willing to work together when it

suits you..." Abraham put his hands back on their shoulders
and brought them all in a little closer, as if sharing a secret.
"Compromise, gentlemen. If Smith is willing to provide heat
first thing in the morning even when his forge is not needed,
perhaps you would provide the leather for patches to his
boots and apron at no charge?" When it looked as if they
were both about to protest again, he went on. "I don't know
what all the details are of course, but I'm sure you can both
come up with something satisfactory to both of you.

"And I'm sure you can do it without bringing the whole

town out." He nodded toward the little group that had
gathered around and was watching avidly.

He received grudging agreement and was pleased no one

would need to see the doctor this day, not would his little jail
be put to use.

"Sails!" shouted someone. "Sails! Coming to port!"
Abraham looked out, and sure enough, coming in was a

ship, sails and flag fluttering in the wind, the sun behind them
leaving the entire ship as a shadow. The argument between
Goodman and Smith was forgotten, even by Goodman and
Smith it seemed, everyone heading for the docks. Abraham
went as well, eyes on the ship.

The single-mast sloop flew in on the wind, driving it faster

than it seemed possible.

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"'Tis a devil's ship, the way it rides above the waves."

Goody Sampson made the sign of the evil eye and spat,
staring at the dark, sleek shape speeding toward them.

Abraham hoped not. St-Mary's was a peaceful town on a

small island. And so far they'd avoided pirates and His
Majesty's ships alike. He strode out to the end of the pier,
watching the ship, just like everyone else. It had to be a
miracle they hadn't sent the wooden dock into the water—the
whole town was out.

The ship slowed, but did not dock. Instead it dropped

anchor and simply stayed there. Dark. Silent.

They all stared and Elijah Barrowman, the major of their

little town, came to his side. "Can you see what colors they
fly, Sawyer?"

Abraham squinted, but the sun was too bright behind the

ship, and at any rate the wind had the flag flapping
perpendicular to their position. "No."

"Do you think it'll be a supply ship then? With goods to

sell?" Poor Elijah sounded so hopeful. No doubt not wanting to
contemplate any of the darker alternatives.

Abraham took a breath and listened to his gut. It had

failed him but the once. He shook his head. "No."

"Should we greet them, do you think?"
Ah, there was the question. Abraham had no answer for it.

But as the ship remained, almost a ghost by their little port,
he nodded. "If they're pirates they will try to take what they
want, greeting or no. If they are fair traders, it would
behoove us to welcome them."

Galleons and Gangplanks

by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

Elijah nodded and looked up at him, but Abraham shook

his head. "You are our major, Barrowman. It would not do for
the law to be their first welcome."

"Of course, of course." Elijah was a little man, small of

stature, and thin, but he had a good head on him, and he had
served the town with skill and pride. He did not fail his
constituents this time.

He stood on the edge of the dock, and Abraham stood just

behind and to his side, offering his support as Elijah called
out. "Ahoy there!"

The ship simply sat, silent. Dark. Foreboding. Elijah tsked

and fussed a little and Abraham nodded. He didn't like this
one bit. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on
end. He looked about, at the whole town either on the docks
or spilled out beyond it toward the Main Street. They were
sitting ducks. The lot of them.

"Once more, Elijah. Call once more. I'm going to suggest

the ladies take their little ones home until we know what's
afoot."

"I do think that would be a delicious idea, my dear man.

However, the rest of you lot, just gather together, I believe,
and we'll have an easier time of it." The voice was soft, deep,
dangerous. Almost as dangerous as the thirty armed men
that surrounded them.

Abraham growled, his hand going automatically to his hip

and the pistol ... that he didn't wear unless he had a call to.
"We are all unarmed," he called out, searching for the
speaker, the leader of this crew of brigands who'd caught
them neatly in a dishonorable ambush.

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by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

"We are not seeking blood, Giant. We simply wish to

discuss a trade." He could not tell which man spoke, they
were all shadowed with the twilight.

He bristled at being called a giant, but did not reply to the

barb. "What kind of trade is it that comes at the point of a
sword?"

Elijah fidgeted beside him and he put his hand back on the

man's shoulder. Should this be legitimate, he would let the
mayor handle any negotiations.

"The kind of trade that a desperate group of men has need

to make, laddie." This second voice had a definite Scottish
burr to it. "We have a lass that's with bairn; she needs to
come ashore and we're lacking in some stores."

"I thought it was bad luck to sail with a woman on board?"

He'd heard all sorts of things from the sailors on the ship that
had brought him over.

A tall, lean man with snapping black eyes and a long beard

dark as pitched laughed at him. "Indeed. You note that we
are here on your isle, lacking both sugarcane and rum."

"You'll not find any rum here," Elijah noted. "But we are

willing to trade fairly for goods. And I'm sure there's a home
for your lady and her child. Especially if she has some skill to
offer for her lodging?"

Abraham rolled his eyes. She was as likely to be a whore

as not.

"That'll be between you and her menfolk. They'll be

staying to assure she's well-cared for."

"You've got coin then have you?" Abraham asked. "To pay

for the lodging?" Pirates, staying here. He didn't like the

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by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

sound of this at all. He could hear the murmurs of the
townsfolk around him. And he tensed, worried this would end
badly for all but the men with swords.

The dark man chuckled, eyes landing upon him, near

burning. "They'll have what they'll have and I'll take what I
want. Of course, should a strapping man, such as yourself, be
willing to come aboard and work a bit, we might consider our
generosity again."

Abraham's fingers curled into his fists. He would not go

willingly, though if it meant he safeguarded the lives of the
townsfolk of St-Mary's, he might consider it. "And negotiating
without swords at our throats would make us reconsider
ours."

"Ah, but we are not fools and I did say your women and

children might return to their homes unharmed."

Abraham raised an eyebrow. "Rachel, lead them home.

Make sure they all get indoors. And don't be opening up for
anyone other than your men." Some of the older boys
protested, wanting to stay, but Abraham shot them stern
looks. He didn't need to be worrying on them while these
varmints had them.

"All right," he said as the last of the boys followed their

mothers. "What exactly are you needing?"

"Supplies. And to know the Torn Heart is welcome to dock.

In return, I'll leave men to defend you from any others." The
man was beautiful, in a rough, wind-swept way.

Abraham did his best not to notice these things, no matter

who the man was, but sometimes he noticed. With this man,
he couldn't help but notice. His noticing had left his voice

Galleons and Gangplanks

by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

gruff. "You'll pay for the supplies? Or will they be taken along
with whatever the men you leave need while they're here?" It
could be a good deal, there were pirates aplenty who might
come ashore and take what they would, rape the women, kill
the able bodied men who refused to be press-ganged into
service. But they could not afford to just turn over supplies
with nothing else but extra mouths to feed in return.

"An' what good would coin do ye, laddie?" The old man

was gruff, but sure, one good eye sharp. "We'll give your
women some cloth and we'll assure that the admiral flying the
King's colors skips your little island and doesn't breed your
women with scurvy sailors."

"As long as you don't breed her with damnable pirates!" He

absolutely hated being dictated to, but he didn't see how they
had much choice. Those swords looked sharp and not one of
the pirates had made a move to sheath his weapon.

"There's only the one woman here to breed? Aye, mateys,

no wonder the lads are so low in the mouth." Oh, the old man
had a foul temper.

"I say," Elijah stepped in front of him, trembling, but

obviously having determined that it was his time to be brave.
"There will be no more talk of breeding or there will be no
deals made here today. And I must say, we really cannot do
without Mr. Sawyer and I don't understand why he must go
with you. Otherwise, the bargain is acceptable."

Abraham managed not to snort. They were being taken

advantage of, but he supposed it was better than the
alternative. The pirates had them, there was no denying that.

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by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

"Consider him a deposit upon finding my men safe and

sound upon my return."

Abraham did snort this time. As if these townsfolk could

possibly do anything to the pirates.

Several of the pirates brandished their swords at the

sound, one nearly nicking young Ardous Salmon and a
murmur went up among the townsfolk. They were scared and
angry, their lives and the lives of their loved ones hanging in
the balance.

Abraham stepped forward. He would protect them as best

he could. "Then I will go with you. But mark my words,
should anything happen to these people while I am not here,
I shall count you lot responsible and I will exact justice." The
fact that the pirate captain was a handsome devil had nothing
to do with his decision. Nothing at all.

"'Ttis a fair trade, indeed." The captain bowed, hat

flourishing out.

Abraham's lips tightened and his back straightened.
Elijah opened his mouth, but Abraham touched his

shoulder. "Let's have it done then," he growled.

"Excellent. Oliver, assist the townspeople with their

supplies. Gentle giant, you may attend me."

Gentle giant. If his back hadn't already been ramrod

straight, that comment would have made it so. "Take care of
them, Elijah. I will be back." He stepped toward the pirate,
his chin high. "What would you have me do?"

"Follow me. I'll have you row one of the boats back to the

ship." The man stood lean and tall, with snapping black eyes,
the cutlass pointing toward the trees. The man was dressed

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like a fop—leather and lace, colors that only a woman would
wear.

It galled him to take orders from such a man. Truth be

told, it would have galled him to take orders from any man.
He had refused to follow the rules of others, had accepted
exile rather than recant his own ways. He bit his lip to keep
quiet and went in the direction the pirate indicated.

The husky voice began to sing, a bawdy little ditty ringing

out, filling the air. He ignored the song, tried to ignore the
way the timber of the pirate's voice slid over his spine.

"So I'm to be your slave then?" he asked as he settled in

the small boat at the oars.

"Of course not. You've been conscripted into service." The

smile on the man's face was pure wickedness. "You might find
it pleasant."

"I fail to see how being stolen, excuse me, pressed into

service away from my life, my home, will be pleasant." He
began to row, digging the oars into the water and pulling
them through it, the muscles in his arms and back working
hard.

"You simply need to stretch your imagination, my dear,

well-muscled man."

He shot a look at the pirate—the man was making fun of

him.

"There's nothing wrong with my imagination, pirate."

Nothing at all. In fact it was working overtime as he imagined
meeting this man under different circumstances ... He pushed
the thought away. Just because the man had mesmerizing
eyes...

Galleons and Gangplanks

by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

"No?" The pirate spread long legs, draping himself over the

boat in a most distracting way. Indecent, that's what the man
was. Of course he was a pirate, and Abraham supposed that
one could only expect such things of a pirate.

He looked past the man to the shore that was growing

farther and farther away as he rowed.

"Do not worry about your townsfolk. They'll meet less

harm from us than they would have the sailors."

"We prefer merchant ships." Fair trade on both sides. He

couldn't deny that the commodore's ships were more likely to
press-gang far too many of their able-bodied men.

"Aye. I admit to a delicious fondness of those myself."
Abraham snorted. "I imagine you do. I'll not assist in

plundering any vessel or town, pirate."

"You may call me Captain, Giant."
"And my name is Master Sawyer," he snapped, the

moniker of giant grating.

"Sawyer, is it? That's a solid name." Those thin lips curled,

teasing him. "For a giant."

He felt his cheeks heat and told himself it was from the

exertion and the sun. He glanced back over his shoulder,
more to find something else to look at than to see how close
they were to the pirate ship.

The pirate didn't seem to notice, or if he did, didn't

mention it. The bawdy song got louder, more suggestive, a
tale of a lad who bent before another lad and waggled his
bum. His eyes widened, his prick taking an interest in the
image the words brought to mind. He pulled harder on the
oars and the rowboat hit the pirate's ship, hard.

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"Mmm. You like singing, Giant? Or do you have a yen for

danger?"

"I am a lawman, Pirate. Danger goes with the job," he

replied, using just one oar to guide the boat to a rope ladder
hanging from the prow.

"Is your prick always so interested when you work?" That

smile was most wicked.

His nostrils flared, one of his hands dropping automatically

to cover his traitorous cock. "Do you always notice other
men's pricks?"

The dark head tilted, eyes bright as buttons. "Always? No.

No, that seems distracting. But often. As often as I can."

He gasped, shocked that a man, even a pirate, would

openly admit to such a thing. "You would bend a man over?"

"Or be bent; I admit to little preference in the matter."
He snapped his mouth shut, but could not keep his eyes

from widening, or from traveling over the pirate's form. He
had never done such things, had never dared dream ... kisses
and furtive rubbing had been the extent of his experience
back home and he'd not dared here, not when he'd found a
place to live and be his own man.

And he did not know how to reply to the pirate's words.
The smile he received surprised him with its warmth. "Ease

yourself, Giant. You need not commit yourself."

"Commit myself to what, Pirate? I am already committed

to working on your ship until we return to St-Mary's." He
grabbed hold of the rope ladder. "Unless you've changed your
mind and I am free to go?"

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"I haven't spent near enough time with you, Abraham. I

won't change me mind."

"A shame. I have spent more than enough time among

pirates." He turned and began to climb the ladder. When had
he told the pirate his Christian name?

"Not nearly enough, Giant. Not nearly." Was that a touch

to his thigh?

His prick leapt again and he moved faster, climbing onto

the deck and standing well aside to give the pirate plenty of
room. He didn't know what it was about this pirate, but the
man got under his skin without the least provocation.

The captain bounced over the side, bowing as the ruffians

left behind applauded and hooted. The man was shameless!

And had a very fine arse.
He glared at the pirate.
Those dark eyes danced, smiled at him from under the

brim of the floppy hat. "Would you like a tour, my dear
giant?"

The truth was that he would, if it were this fop that gave

him said tour. "If you insist."

"Oh, I believe I must." One hand swept the air with a

flourish. "If you please."

Fop.
He strode forward in the direction he was shown. "So,

Pirate. Who did you steal this sloop from?"

"Does it matter?" The laughter that chased him was rich

and amused and somehow fond.

"I suppose not." She was a nice ship, and well-cared for,

the wood polished and clean.

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"Then simply enjoy it." The men aboard, ruffians all,

seemed well-treated enough.

"What will my duties be?" he asked as they went below

decks. It was closer quarters here, and his head grazed the
ceiling.

"I'm sure to put you to work, I vow it, but you should find

it pleasant, indeed." He was led to a small door, the planks
leading to a well-appointed room, complete with bedstead
and hearth, chest and rugs upon the floor.

His mouth was open again and he snapped it shut,

determined not to look like some backwater idiot. But
honestly, he was quite surprised by how homey the room
was. You'd hardly know you were aboard a ship, but for the
gentle movement of the floor beneath him. "Surely this isn't
my quarters?"

"These are the captain's quarters, Abraham. Whether they

are your own or not, is completely up to you, my dear friend."

"I am not your friend, Pirate." Why he didn't even know

the man's name. "And how exactly would these be mine? You
mean if I were to challenge you?" These pirates ruled by
force, after all. Captaincy would be taken, he imagined.

"You honestly do not know me? I believed it all an act."

The hat was removed, those jet-black eyes like a little birds.

Know the pirate? "I do not keep company with pirates!"
Those eyes held him, but when the pirate blinked the spell

was broken and now that the hat was removed, the face...

Abraham gasped and stepped back. Thinner, the blush of

youth gone, hair longer, but unless he was mistaken it was

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the first boy he'd ever cared for, ever spent furtive moments
with. "Redding?"

"Ah, see? You haven't forgotten after all!" The smile he

received was quick and wicked as an imp's, those eyes surely
dancing. "I couldn't believe my luck when I heard your name
mentioned as the gaol master. I had to see you for myself."

He blinked a few times, quite stunned. His body was less

slow than his mind, his prick perking once again, beginning to
push eagerly at his breeches. The ship suddenly shifted
beneath his feet, and he nearly lost his balance.

One strong hand took his arm, assisting him, bringing the

sea and musk smell of Redding—his dear Redding who had
been well-beaten and banished, driven away for their
perversions—close enough to take up close again.

"I ... Redding." He leaned in, letting his body have control,

giving into the instincts and needs he had spent years
ignoring, suppressing.

Redding nodded, prick hard and full against his thigh. "Yes,

my dear giant. In the flesh. I have searched the seas for
you."

"You heard of my banishment, then?" He murmured,

looking into those dark eyes. How the tables had turned. He
was no longer the young lordling, Redding no longer the
servant.

"I did, after my fever cleared and I took one of your

father's ships."

"That was you?" Abraham laughed suddenly, delighted to

learn the pirate that had been such a thorn in his father's side

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had been Redding himself. "I have a powerful urge, Red." The
old nickname tripped easily from his tongue.

"It was indeed. I plagued him as best I could, my dear."

His hand was taken, pressed against a heavy cock, the flesh
near throbbing for him.

He glanced toward the closed door, even as he squeezed

Redding's prick, felt the heat of it even through the black
leggings.

"I am lord and master here, Giant, until another comes to

best me. You need not fear."

He bent closer, wanting a kiss, wanting much more. For

years though, he'd hidden this side of himself. By God, he'd
seen this man, barely into adulthood beaten near to death for
indulging his urges. He could not resist those lips though,
anymore than he could before and he pressed his own against
them.

This he remembered, down in the depths of his soul, the

hunger and the pleasure and the eager joy that bubbled up
into their kiss. He felt as if he would devour Redding, the
man's mouth a true treasure.

The ship shifted again and he stumbled backward until he

hit the wall, bringing Redding with him. Redding was gaunt
now, muscles hard and strong where they once had been
supple and well-fed, hungry where once the man had been
satisfied.

His hands slid over Redding's ribs and around to his back.

He slid them down to Redding's arse, grabbing hold and
bringing them closer together. Redding's prick was hard and
hot against his upper thigh, his own need rubbing and

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rubbing against Redding's belly. The sensations exploded
inside him, things he'd never dreamt he'd feel again.

"My dear..." Redding laughed against his lips, tongue

pressing in to taste him before disappearing again. "You are
still so eager."

"Do you know how long it's been since there was anything

other than my hand? And now I have you in my arms again,
Red." He brought their mouths back together again, showing
Redding just how eager he was.

Redding's hand slipped around the back of his head,

fingers tangling in his short hair. "My giant." The word no
longer nettled, now that he knew it was not meant as an
insult.

He glanced toward the bed, even as his prick threatened to

spend from their rubbing together. "Can we...?"

"I think we ought, before I ravage you."
"Is that your plan then, Red? To ravage your captive?" He

was rather fond of the idea.

"To ravage you, then allow you to ravage, then we shall

sail a bit before returning to the work of it."

Redding's words sent a shiver down his back, and he

straightened away from the wall, stumbling with the full
movements of the ship, but refusing to let go of his prize as
he made for the bed. They fell upon it, the mattress
surprisingly soft.

The ropes that held the bedding creaked and groaned, the

entire mass swaying for a moment. "It will hold us."

"I hope so," he murmured, rolling onto Redding and

rubbing hard.

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"Yes. Bare yourself for me. I want your skin."
Skin on skin. Just the thought was nearly enough to have

him spend. Leaning up on one arm, he tugged off his tunic,
and began on the laces of his breeches. "You, too, Red. I
want to see you."

"We've waited so long, you wouldn't wait more?"
He stopped, his hand pausing in the act of pushing his

trousers off. His eyes flew to Redding's. "What? I thought..."

"A simple tease, my dear." Redding's dark eyes laughed at

him, so warm, so happy.

"Oh." His cheeks reddened, and then he laughed, fingers

attacking Redding's lacy blouse. The buttons were small and
annoying and he wound up ripping several off the flimsy
material.

"I'll put you to work mending, Abraham." Redding kissed

his lips, his chin, his jaw.

"Just because I wish to lie with you doesn't mean I'm a

woman, Redding!" He pushed the blouse open, groaning at
the sight of the lean chest, the dark little nipples. The scars.

"No, there is nothing womanly about you, my dear. Touch

me."

"Yes." He laid his hand in the center of Redding's chest and

slid it down, stroking he fine belly. It made him moan, his
prick throbbing.

The scars fascinated his fingers and he traced them, each

and every one. Redding had not had an easy life. He was
lucky to be alive. Bending, Abraham licked the one near
Redding's right nipple, tracing the pale line with his tongue.

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"Abraham." Redding's voice was stunned, soft. "I had

dreamed. Prayed."

He looked up, fingers sliding to trace Redding's features.

"You dreamed of me? I dared not dream. Dared not hope."

"I am nothing, Abraham, if not daring."
"Yes, I can see that..." His fingers slid over the scars

again. "I will be daring now."

He brought their mouths back together, hand sliding down

to open Redding's leggings. Redding's flesh near leapt up into
his fingers, heated and swollen, longer than he remembered,
the length of skin smoother. Groaning into Redding's mouth,
he started to stroke, fingers sliding up and down the hot
flesh, still half expecting someone to burst in and tear them
apart, though he knew it would not happen.

Redding muttered into his lips, dark, desperate sounds

pushing into his mouth. He rubbed against Redding's thigh,
his cock sliding along skin. He wanted so much, and he could
do was rub and tug, sensations crashing through him.

"Abraham. Love." Redding arched, heels drumming upon

the bedding.

His own body arched as the ragged need in Redding's

voice sent him over the edge, his prick releasing his seed as
his body bucked hard against Redding's skin. Those dark eyes
flashed, one hand dipping down and gathering his essence
before Redding brought those long fingers up, lapping them
as a cat did cream.

"Red..." Groaning, he followed his instincts, licking Redding

fingers, tasting himself on them. Sharp and salty, it surprised

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him, as did how arousing it was to taste himself so on his
lover's fingers.

"You didn't finish," he noted, his hand beginning to move

again over Redding prick.

"You quite distracted me." Redding groaned, the sound

almost pained.

"Mmm..." he liked that thought, that he could distract this

sensual man his Redding had grown into.

He kept stroking, the head of Redding's cock fascinating

his fingers, the way it felt different from the rest, the way it
leaked...

"There. Just there, my dear." That voice was so familiar,

rough and raw in its need.

"Redding. Red." He leaned his forehead against Redding's

looking into the dark eyes as his hand worked. "Give me your
pleasure."

"Yes. Yes." Redding nodded, arched, near bucked up into

his hand, heat splashing over his fingers, over his wrist. He
remembered that look from when they were lads, only now it
was experienced rather than innocent. Now it made his own
prick jerk and try to fill again.

Holding Redding's eyes, he brought his hand to his mouth

and licked at it as Redding had done. Sweet. Redding's seed
was surprisingly sweet, with a bitterness and a salt that made
him search for more ... He licked his hand clean and collapsed
next to Redding, the two of them more naked than not,
hanging out in the breeze coming through the porthole
window.

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"Would you really let me bend you over?" he asked, the

idea taking hold in his mind.

"I would, and be glad of it, my dear. I haven't had a good,

hard plugging in ages." Wicked pirate!

Even as he gasped to hear the words, his prick lengthened

against his thigh, filling and reaching for his belly.

"Mmm. I do remember this heavy bit of rope with a

fondness." Redding's fingers closed about him, began to
encourage him to further heights. No awkward fumbles,
Redding's hand was practiced, had him arching up into each
stroke with an eagerness that belied the fact he had just
spent moments earlier.

He touched Redding's face. "I want you," he admitted. The

image of Redding bent over the bed simply burned into his
thoughts.

"And you shall have me." Redding's eyes were warm and

wanton, hungry for him. He didn't have to ask if Redding
meant it; he could see very well that the man did.

He took a kiss, tongue sliding into Redding's mouth, the

heat and flavor there echoing the taste of Redding's seed. The
ship began to move, the bed beneath them swaying, rocking
Redding more firmly against him. His prick wasn't the only
one that had recovered, Redding equally, or nearly, as hard
as he. With a groan, he grabbed onto Redding's arms trying
to roll the man over before Redding's hand had him spending
again.

"How would you have me, Giant? Hands and knees? My

arse offered over like a prize?"

Galleons and Gangplanks

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His prick throbbed and he nodded. What other ways could

there be? "Yes. If you meant it that you would be glad of it."

Hands, rough with scars and bumps took hold of his face.

"I have terrorized the seas in search of you, my giant, even
as you found another life. I would be glad of it."

"Then I want my prize, Red. I want you and your arse

offered over."

Redding turned over beneath him, arse rubbing against his

thighs, offer blatant and sure.

"Red..." His hands cupped the round globes, noting that

while not as dark as the rest of the man, they certainly were
not pale. The pirate had been beneath the sun's light without
his leggings. Scandalous man.

He'd never done this, but he knew the general mechanics,

and he slid his thumbs along Redding's crease, searching for
the hole he knew would be there. The tiny hidden ring of
muscles shifted and moved beneath his gaze, a private thing
that he exposed as he spread Redding wider.

"Are you sure I'll fit?" he asked, voice almost a whisper.
"You'll stretch me, surely, but I'll feel you, so thick and

long." Redding's eyes flashed, shone. "By the trident of
Poseidon, Abraham, I've seen a man take another man's hand
up to the elbow. Grab the oil and ready me."

"Hand?" His own let go of Redding's arse. "A man's entire

hand to the elbow? What crime had he committed that
someone would do such a thing?"

"Not a crime at all, my dear. This was a fair lad and his

beloved, the lad begged for it prettily, spending again and

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again. His lover, a man of some wealth, was quite taken with
the boy, I vow it."

He couldn't believe what shocked him more, that such a

thing had been done, or that it had been done with an
audience. And he had thought himself a man of the world...

"Where's the oil?" he asked, swallowing hard. Shocking

though it might be, it had not turned him away from his
desires.

"In the vial in the small jeweled chest." The chest was

metal-banded, solid, promising to hold such treasures.

Of course the only treasure he was interested in at the

moment was the oil so he could have Redding. His prick
throbbed at the thought, his body reacting even if his
imagination failed him. How could he fit? How would that
tightness feel?

He opened the treasure chest. There was a stoppered vial

on the top, along with a dizzying array of gems and jewelry,
stones and chains. He grabbed the vial he was after, and
closed the chest again, trying not to think about how much
the loot that was just lying there was worth. Nor how it was
acquired.

"Now how do you want me to do this, Red?"
"Have you never, even in all these years?"
He felt the heat rush to his cheeks. "Never, Red. I have

not touched another man in lust since I was banished," he
admitted. He was on very friendly terms with his right hand.

"Oh, what luck that I found you, then, lest all this need be

lost." The response warmed him, not mean-spirited at all.

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by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

He touched Redding's cheek. "Lucky indeed. Already I

have enjoyed more than I ever believed I would again."

"And think on it. We have only begun."
He grinned wolfishly. "Speaking of beginning ... tell me

what exactly to do with the damnable oil, Red."

"Slick your fingers, Abraham, and then slide one inside

me, stretch me. When I can take three easily, slick your prick
and put it to the business it's meant for."

"As long as it isn't all five you're expecting me to use,

Red." He poured oil out onto his fingers.

"I'll allow you to work up to that, my dear."
"You're insane," he murmured.
He rubbed his finger along Redding's crack again, and then

pushed it right into the man's body. Hot and tight, almost
seeming to suck his finger right in, he gasped.

"I have been called mad a thousand times. Call me love

again." Redding arched, body moving upon his fingers, eager
and clinging.

Love ... he'd not used that word in many years, and only

one person had ever earned it.

"Red..." he groaned and slid a second finger in with the

first, amazed at his easily it was accepted. Closing his eyes,
he whispered the word. "Love."

"Yes. Yes, my dear. More."
He was amazed by the way Redding moved on his fingers,

the eagerness and heat, lean body undulating, promising such
pleasure around his prick.

"Another now, with more oil." Redding arched, heavy sac

swaying between the spread thighs.

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He poured the oil first and slid three fingers into Redding's

body, amazed to watch them go in, that small hole stretching
for him. A low moan was pulled from him, his cock throbbing
hard.

"Abraham. My dear. Deeper. Deeper, please."
He obeyed, the need in Redding's voice calling to his own.

Pushing his fingers in deeper, he reached between Redding's
legs to cup his balls, find his prick.

His fingertips nudged something flat inside Redding's body

and his old friend arched, groaned. "There."

"This?" He touched it again, his other hand wrapping

around Redding's cock.

"Yes. Yes, Giant. There." His own pirate sounded quite lost.
He kept pushing against that spot, wrapped up in the

sounds of pleasure, the sensations of his Redding.

He leaned his forehead against Redding's back, panting.

"Red..." He couldn't hold on much longer.

"In. In me, Abraham. I need to know you, inside me."
"Yes." His voice was harsh, and he pulled his fingers away,

hand trembling as he poured more oil out onto his prick,
coating it thoroughly.

"Yes. I need, my dear. Badly."
Those thighs spread further, hips offered. He settled

between them, cock in one hand, spreading Redding's cheeks
apart with the other. Without another word, he pushed up
against the little hole, spreading it with the tip of his prick.

"In." Redding pushed back against him, that ring of

muscles spreading, taking him in.

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He cried out, the heat, the tightness incredible, like

nothing he ever could have thought to imagine. His hands
grabbed hold of Redding's hips as his back arched, driving
himself deep. Redding did not resist, did not hesitate, simply
pushing back and riding him.

Each push into Redding's body brought another rush of

pleasure as the tight body moved around his cock. Abraham's
flesh was squeezed, gripped tight in that sweet sheath. He
felt as if he was in heaven. How could he have denied himself
for so long? He moved faster, the sound of their flesh
slapping together sweet.

"This, my dear, this is what they were so frightened that

you would find." The words were bitten out, nearly growled.

"Found it now," he growled back.
He shouted out as the pleasure exploded suddenly, his

vision going white. Redding was still moving against him,
body tight and rubbing his cock as he came back to earth.
Panting, he slid his hand around Redding's waist, finding the
hard prick and wrapping his fingers around it. He tugged upon
it as his hips began to match Redding's movements again.

"Abraham." He'd not heard his name cried out like that in

too long, too many years.

"Red. Love." He squeezed Redding's prick tight.
"Yes." Heat spread over his fingers, even as the muscles

about him fluttered and squeezed.

He shivered and collapsed against Redding's back. "I

swear, I never..."

"And now that you have?"

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"Perhaps there is a perk or two to being a pirate." He

turned to his side, stroking Redding's cheek. "I'll not take up
arms against any of His Majesty's ships, Red. But I'll not lose
you again, either."

"We'll find our way, my stubborn giant."
"Considering that you found me after all this time, Red, I

imagine we just might. But you are the one who is stubborn."

Him. Stubborn. Ha. "I am simply thorough."
"That's a good quality." He paused a moment. "For a

lawman."

"That, my dear, I will never be. I live beyond the bounds of

law."

"We will see. I have it on good authority I'm a stubborn

man."

"That you are. You should rest; we're at sea and I ought to

see to my men."

He received another kiss, a slow, warm smile.
"I should come with you—I'm sure you've got work for

me." He would earn his keep.

"I do. You'll have to tell me all you've learned since you've

been gone."

"I have a hunch you've learned a great deal more than I

have, Red." He could work hard though. "But I imagine you'll
find something for my muscles."

"I could occupy those in here for years."
He stretched, flexing his muscles idly, knowing he was

making a shameless display of himself, and yet wanting
Redding to notice, to see. "Your crew would talk."

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"My crew is well aware of my proclivities, my dear. Well

aware."

Which meant they knew exactly what he and Redding had

been about down here. He felt his cheeks heat.

"No shame." Redding's voice was sharp as a whip. "I will

not carry shame here."

He considered that. Redding could be his dirty little secret,

his to keep hidden away. But he'd done that for too many
years and while he had found a new home, and kept it along
with his secret, he hadn't had the pleasure and joy that
Redding brought. "I will not be ashamed of you," he agreed.

"Or of yourself, my dear. I will not have it." When had his

sweet, kind servant become hard? Redding had left a beaten
youth and now was a man.

Abraham couldn't stop his eyes from running over the lean

body, seeing just how much of a man Redding now was. His
prick tried to come back to life. "You've changed, Red."

"I am a pirate, Abraham. You must never forget that."
"Does that mean I cannot trust you, Red?" He had to know

where he stood with Redding. Was he merely a distraction?
An old memory found and played with?

"You will have to make that decision, sweet giant. I am

who I am and I have finally found you. I have no intention of
letting you disappear again."

"So I can trust you to keep me here with you." He could

live with that. For now.

He stood and stretched, began to get dressed. "Then you'd

better show me what I can do to earn my keep."

Galleons and Gangplanks

by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

Chapter Two
Redding sat on his favorite chair, sharpening his boot knife

and staring upon the strong man in his bed. It had been most
fortuitous, honestly, to stumble upon a ship carrying goods
and information, including a letter to a certain banished
lordling from his lady-wife, announcing that her father had
come to ill and that she had, in turn, come into a fair fortune.

Of course, his dear giant was worth a great deal more to

him than any lady might offer either of them.

He'd set the man to working the riggings after the bastard

refused to wield a sword. He could ill-afford to lose the
respect of his men by allowing one as obviously strong as
Abraham was to play the whore. Not that that particular
profession would set with his giant, no. No, not at all.

Redding rolled his shoulders, the decade-old scars pulling

and tugging beneath the newer ones laid upon the top. He'd
nearly died for this man, been tossed off the docks bloodied
and lost. It was, in truth, the best thing that had ever
happened to him.

Abraham muttered something in his sleep, shifting, and

the blanket slipped, offering him a view of the muscled belly,
thick cock just visible.

Of course, that amazing prick filling him to the top was a

most arguable second, indeed. He licked the edge of the
blade, testing its sharpness before oiling it and putting it
away. He drank deep from the ale that Georgie had delivered
with a sweet nuzzle and a caress while his giant slept, then he

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turned his attentions to the bed. "Are you interested in a bit
of play, you layabout?"

Abraham snorted and came awake, sitting up and looking

about himself wildly for a moment. Then he relaxed. "Red."
The look in those lovely eyes as they gazed upon him was
hot.

"Quite." He allowed his hand to drop, fingers framing his

placket, begging Abraham's attention.

And just like magic, Abraham's eyes followed the

movement, eyes widening, that prick filling, lengthening. "Did
I hear you say something about play?" Perhaps Abraham's
voice was thick from sleep. Perhaps it was husky for another
reason.

"I believe I did." He began to stroke himself, holding that

so-fine attention. "I have need of you, my giant."

Abraham's tongue came out to lick his lips. "You seem to

have yourself well in hand," his giant pointed out.

"Do I? And don't you wish to assist me?" He preened a bit,

remembering the pale and fine lad he'd been once.

Abraham nodded, eyes still stuck to his middle, watching

as his hand moved over his breeches. "Come to bed, Red."
Oh, that growl was not because of sleep.

"Mmm..." His body shuddered, that tone exciting him,

bone deep.

Abraham's cock was fully hard, bobbing as Abraham

shifted on the bed, lifting the covers and giving him room. As
soon as he was near enough, his giant's hands moved to
undo the ties that held his breeches closed. His own prick

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pushed its way free, bobbing before Abraham like a hook
upon a line.

"You've a swelling," Abraham noted, corner of his mouth

quirking. One big hand slid along his thigh, warm and solid.
He could see Abraham swaying toward his prick, tongue
coming out again to lick at his lips.

"I do. 'Tis like an addiction, this ache I have for you."
He leaned in, brushed Abraham's mouth with the tip of his

cock.

Abraham groaned. "I haven't since..." Another groan

sounded and Abraham's tongue slid out to lick at the tip of his
prick before Abraham's lips surrounded him, mouth taking
him in.

"Dearest..." The heat slid over his skin, his toes curling

with the pleasure, with the pure need.

Abraham's eyes turned up to meet his, and then they

closed, his giant's cheeks hollowing as the suction increased.
Abraham's tongue played over his flesh. It was a luxury, to
reach out and touch and stroke, to brush his fingers over
Abraham's stubble and let the tiny rough hairs abrade his
fingertips. Still sucking, Abraham nuzzled into his touch, his
giant so starved for such affections. The moan around his
cock went straight to his balls.

"I searched the seas for you, dear sir. I dared the very

angels themselves to hide you from me."

Abraham drew off his prick to give him a wry grin. "The

things you say, Red."

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Well, they certainly weren't meant to give Abraham cause

to stop. Redding arched up, nudging those fine lips again.
"And I mean each one."

Abraham's lips opened, taking him in again, head bobbing

slowly. Redding felt his heart throb as if he were the servant
lad from long ago, his sacs drawing up close to his body.
Abraham's eyes had closed again, head moving on Redding's
prick like the man was praying. Then Abraham moaned, the
sound a long vibration around his flesh.

"Sweet heavens..." His head fell back, his long hair tickling

his still-bare back.

Faster and faster, Abraham moved on him, tongue

slapping against the tip with every pass.

"Abraham. Soon. Soon, I must." He near growled the

words out, lips pulling back from his teeth as his need rushed
to the fore.

Abraham's suction got harder, as if demanding his climax.

One big hand wrapped around his hip, the other found his
balls, cupping and rolling them. He cried out as if he were a
woman, the sound torn from him in a rush.

Abraham kept sucking, kept insisting, mouth working him

with more enthusiasm than experience, but it was enough.
More than enough, as seed rushed from him, splashing on
Abraham's tongue. Jerking, eyes flying open, Abraham
nonetheless managed to swallow most of his seed down, only
a little dribbling from the corner of Abraham's mouth. Redding
hummed, gathering that seed and bringing it to his mouth.
Salt, bitter—him.

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Abraham groaned and lay back, naked, legs splayed, prick

hard and leaking at the tip. "Redding ... please."

"Look at the feast I have spread before me..." He leaned

down, tongue pressing into the wet slit, drawing the flavor of
his giant within him.

Abraham bucked, crying out. "You are a wizard, I swear."
"I am a pirate." He smiled against Abraham's flesh. "Would

you have my lips or my arse, my dear giant?"

"Such a richness of choices. I would kiss your mouth, Red,

feel your body against him as you encase me. This time."

"We have many times, Giant." He slid up along Abraham's

flesh, tongue dragging along the way.

Abraham's hands moved along his sides, holding on as the

large body pushed up into his touches. "I never dreamed of
such luxury."

"You never spent enough time in dreaming, Abraham. Not

near enough." His teeth found the hard tip of one nipple and
he spent a moment worrying it.

Abraham shuddered, body moving beneath him. "I'd rather

this to any dream, Red." His giant's voice was husky, rough.

Such sweet words. He sucked harder, tongue sliding over

the tiny nub of flesh. Moaning low, Abraham slid a hand up
his back, fingers moving over the scars, tracing them as if
they were a map. He moaned against Abraham's flesh,
arching up into the touch with a moan. The touches
continued, Abraham's other hand cupping his head, keeping
his mouth pressed against Abraham's chest. Redding put all
his effort into sucking and pulling at that tiny bit of flesh,
searching for Abraham's pleasure.

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"Red!" Abraham cried out his name, bucking hard. The

thick prick slid along his hip, leaving a wet, hot trail.

"Yes. Yes, drive yourself within me. Spend inside me." He

straddled Abraham's hips, guided the man's shaft to his hole.

Abraham's eyes met his, held his gaze. He could see how

good it felt for Abraham as the thick prick slowly breached
him. "The things you say..."

"Take me." He grinned, the expression feeling wild upon

his face. "I have such a need."

"Such wicked things." Abraham's hands wrapped around

his waist, tugging him down to meet the thrust that filled him.

"Yes. Wicked and yours. How I will amuse you."
Abraham thrust again, pushing into him, cock hitting deep.

He could see the passion and the wonder in Abraham's eyes.

"Again, beloved. More." He shifted, needing that heavy

cock to stroke across that sweet spot within.

Abraham pulled him down harder as he thrust up again,

and then again. Low sounds of pleasure came from deep
within Abraham, vibrating in the air like music.

"Yes..." His head tossed, long hair dragging on Abraham's

skin.

A sound very much like a whimper came from his giant,

Abraham's hands tightening on his hips, pulling him down
even harder. Abraham's hips worked like the rolling of the
ship, pushing into him over and over.

When Abraham's prick rubbed over that spot inside him,

he near screamed, his cock throbbing. Abraham's eyes
widened at his response, and the next thrust hit in the same
spot, as did the next and the next.

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"Abraham." The cabin spun, his heart pounding furiously,

his pleasure fierce.

"You're hard again," muttered Abraham, amazement

coloring his words. One of the hands at his hips moved, slid
around his prick and every time Abraham drove into him, his
cock slid through his giant's fist.

"My. My dear giant..." His eyes rolled, closed as he fought

the urge to spend.

"Aye, yours. Caught by my need for this, for you, as by

your sword." The words were whispered softly, Abraham's
hips bucking wildly now, pushing into him with speed and
strength.

"Mine. Mine." He could feel his balls draw up tight, feel the

sap rise within him.

Abraham cried out, hand squeezing him tight as heat filled

him in long spurts. That wet heat pushed him before like a
wave, his seed pouring out over Abraham's fingers.

"Redding..." Abraham's hand kept moving slowly around

his prick, the other one rising up to slide over his face.

"Yes." He leaned into the touch, eyes falling closed.
Abraham tugged him down onto the broad chest, hands

again sliding over the scars on his back. "I can see why such
pleasures are forbidden, Red. They are quite intoxicating..."

"They are forbidden because men haven't a stitch of

sense."

Oh, he had not heard that laugh since he was little more

than a boy, and Abraham's chest rose and fell with it.

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When the laughter had faded, Abraham took a breath and

paused, and then said, "You enjoy my being inside you. It
brings you pleasure." It wasn't a question, and yet it was.

"It is the nearest to heaven a pirate can be."
One hand trailed down his spine to touch the place where

they were still joined.

"Heaven, you say."
"Mmmhmm..." His eyes rolled, arse clenching around that

fine bit of flesh within him.

Abraham groaned, hips jerking. The muscles of that great

chest flexed beneath his cheek. He clenched again, body
working Abraham's flesh, sure and steady.

This time Abraham gasped, prick twitching hard within

him. "You'll have me filling again."

"Is that a bad thing?" He squeezed, bouncing just a tad

upon his giant's prick.

"N ... no. Not bad." One large hand slid behind his head

and he was pulling in for a kiss, Abraham's tongue pushing in.

Redding opened eagerly. He wouldn't rise again, but he

could drive his giant toward madness. Abraham's tongue
swept through his mouth, hand squeezing his arse. It was an
easy thing, to offer himself to Abraham's pleasure, to
Abraham's need, so he did, most whole-heartedly. His giant
rolled them, putting him beneath the solid body.

The ropes beneath the bed creaked and groaned under

their weight. Redding wrapped his legs about Abraham's
waist, shifting and moving upon the flesh that impaled him.
Abraham's eyes traveled over his features, watching him
closely as that fine prick drove into him again and again.

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"I am most real, I assure you." He smiled, fingers tracing

Abraham's nose and mouth.

"You do feel very real," Abraham told him, nuzzling into his

hand.

"Wanton." Beautiful, beloved wanton. "How long would you

let me keep you?"

"How long do you want me?" Every word was punctuated

by a thrust.

"An eternity of dawns." The man made him poetic.
Abraham chuckled, the sound turning into a moan, the

thrusts becoming faster. "That's ... a long time."

"Indeed. You are an observant man, Abraham." Observant

and lovely, in a coarse, needy way.

Abraham only groaned at that, thrusts become harder

again; he could see the need chasing across his giant's face.

"I feel you, deep within." He reached up, stroking the lines

of Abraham's face.

"And I feel you all around me." Abraham turned his face,

tongue sliding on his palm. "You taste of salt and ... Red."

"That is a good thing, yes?"
Abraham laughed, the sound husky and soft. "Yes. It is.

Oh. Soon." Abraham's eyes glazed over, his hips pushing
hard, driving the wide prick into him.

He nodded, moving beneath Abraham, driving his lover

high as the gulls in the sky. His giant's face went slack, eyes
rolling in his head as heat sprayed deep inside Redding.
Abraham's arms buckled, weight dropping down onto him. He
accepted the weight, holding Abraham to him. It would not
always be this easy, but for now, it was good.

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Abraham's lips were warm and wet as they nuzzled along

his neck. Oh yes, for now it was very good.

* * * *

Abraham stood at the rail, watching the waves, feeling the

deck rolling under his feet.

He had to admit, there was something about sailing that

he quite enjoyed. It was good, hard work, there always
seemed to be a cooling breeze coming off the ocean, and
there was something to be said for having the open sky above
you all day long.

The perks below decks were ... he grinned. He never would

have imagined a life where he could feel such pleasures and
not be sent to the gaol, banished, or otherwise punished for
it. And that it was his lifelong friend with whom he indulged
seemed a miracle. For a man taken by pirates as collateral,
he was having an awfully good time.

Eventually he'd have to pay, but as he had very little

choice but to be here, and he figured he might as well take
his pleasure while he could. At this very moment, that
pleasure was in lifting his face to the sun, and feeling the
spray of the ocean upon his cheeks.

The sailors about him were crass and rough, but

surprisingly good-natured, accepting him with jokes and
laughs, the men well-cared for, happy. Redding was a good
captain; that much was clear. Not that he was surprised—as a
youth it had been Redding's body that held his in a thrall, but
it was his friend's mind that he'd loved the most. The man
was smart, resourceful.

Galleons and Gangplanks

by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

And he was as bad as any love-smitten girl.
"Look alive, Giant." Black Bonner hurried by, hands filled

with rope. "Captain's growling this night. I'd watch your arse."

"Watch after your own, Bonner," he called after the man.
It didn't sit easily, that every man on this ship knew what

he and Red got up to in the captain's quarters; it was not in
the least what he was used to. However, it was a pirate ship,
he reminded himself yet again.

He took one last look at the ocean, and headed off to find

Redding. A little growling wouldn't put him off. Of course, a
snarl and a cabin boy running from the captain's quarters
might do the job. He could just go back up to the deck and
find something to do. But he'd yet to see Redding in a foul
mood, and he was curious as to what had caused this one.

He didn't knock, he just opened the door and walked in.

Let Redding do his worst.

A string of expletives hit his ears, a cup crashing about the

wall of the cabin.

He closed the door firmly behind him, squinting to find Red

in the dimmer light of the cabin. "Goodness, Red. What did
that cup do to you?"

"What?" Redding turned to stare at him, a streak of ink

slashed upon the man's cheek.

"You're in a mood, Red." He went right up to Redding,

reaching out to rub the ink away.

"You are neither blind nor dumb, Abraham. You might

survive my temper."

Galleons and Gangplanks

by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

"I'm large enough to survive most men's tempers, Red."

He'd lived through his father's temper, after all, he doubted
Redding's could be worse.

"That you are." Redding bent back toward the desk and

the scrap of parchment there.

"What are you doing?" He leaned over Redding's shoulder.
"Trying to write a letter." Redding crumpled up the

parchment, the chicken scratch upon it ill-formed and
unreadable. "What brings you here?"

"I was told you were in a bad mood. I had to see it for

myself." He picked up the parchment and smoothed it out.
"Who is this for?"

"It doesn't matter." Redding snatched it away, brows

thunderous.

"No?" He reached for the parchment again.
"No." He got a growl.
"Why not?" he asked, still eyeing the letter. The writing

really was illegible.

"Because I'm the captain." Redding's cheeks were flushed

dark, the look of embarrassment the same as it had been
went Redding was a young man.

He leaned against Redding's desk. "I remember when we

were boys, going over my lessons with you in one of the
empty stalls in the barn. We never did get to penmanship, did
we?" They'd always become distracted. At first by games or
the animals, as they grew older, by each other.

"Servants didn't need to write." The words were hard,

short.

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"And whose servant are you now, Red?" This mood didn't

suit his Redding, not the young man he'd been nor the
captain he'd become.

"No one's. Just the sea's."
"Then you can learn to write if you want to." He reached

for the letter, but Redding held it out of his reach again.
Chuckling, he leaned in and took Redding's lips with his own.

Redding groaned, growled a bit into his lips. His pirate was

a sight indeed, skin salt-kissed and tanned near mahogany,
blouse open to the waist. He'd been planning to distract
Redding and grab the letter, but he found himself distracted
instead, the fine skin calling to his fingers, his tongue
searching for the taste of Redding within the hot mouth. The
letter fell to the floor, the parchment crinkling as Redding's
fingers wrapped around his nape, dragged him closer.

Their tongues fought together, the most delicious duel as

his hands explored the expanse of Redding's chest. He found
the dark little nipples, fingers teasing them into hard points.
One nipple had a tiny gold ring embedded in it, a ruby
dangling from the flesh. Redding surely hadn't worn it before,
he would have taken notice.

He broke off their kiss, eyes moving to examine what his

fingers had discovered. "What's this?" he asked, stunned,
fascinated.

"A ruby." The words were soft, teasing, Redding's good

humor making an appearance.

Laughing, he flicked the ring up, watching as the weight of

the ruby pulled it back down. "I meant, what have you done
to yourself? How?"

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"It's been healed some time. Do you approve?" Redding

arched, stretched, begging more touches.

"You're a very wicked man," he told Redding, even as his

fingers returned to the ring, touching and tugging. His prick
had gone hard as stone in his breeches.

"You haven't begun to delve into my wickedness,

Abraham."

A shiver went through him. "I want to, Red." Lord help

him, he did. He wanted to learn everything Redding had to
teach him about being wicked together, finding pleasure in
each other's bodies.

"Then you should begin now." Redding spread and

stretched for him, offered up to his hands.

Groaning, he knelt between Redding's legs and brought

their mouths back together again. He pushed the open blouse
over Redding's shoulders, stripping it off so he could touch.
That tiny bit of bauble fascinated his eyes, his fingers, and his
tongue, the damned thing catching the light and sending red
rays all about. He moaned as he played with it, rubbing his
need against Redding's leg.

"It's sturdier than it seems." Redding's eyes were dark as

pitch, shiny as a new button.

"Should I translate that as 'tug it harder'?" he asked,

fingers pulling on the ring, twisting it a little.

His answer was a moan, deep and rough-edged, Redding

arching up in his chair. His own prick throbbed and he bent to
take the ring into his mouth, to twist and pull. Heat poured
off the hard nub, his tongue teasing it.

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"Abraham, my giant. More." Oh, that thread of need, that

desperation, he had put that in Redding's voice.

He reached for the unadorned nipple, taking it between his

fingers and pinching as he continued to lick and bite and twist
that little ring, the ruby growing almost as hot as Redding's
flesh. Oh, he could see it in his mind's eye, the metal piercing
Redding's flesh, Redding's cry filling the air.

He rubbed harder against Redding's leg, wanting so much.

"Bed," he growled, finally, needing more than Redding in the
chair could offer.

"Do you give orders now, beloved giant?" Redding sounded

quite needy, quite willing to follow.

"In here, right now, I do." He stood, grabbing hold of

Redding's hands and hauling him up. The long body landed
hard against his, and he could feel the gold ring with its ruby
against his chest. Redding jerked, moaning against his lips,
skin suddenly hot as the sun.

He stumbled backward as they kissed, falling into the bed

as it hit the backs of his legs. As soon as he was horizontal,
his fingers went for that little ring again. The flesh stretched
and pulled, Redding's groan making his toes curl.

"I want you," he told Redding, tugging harder.
"Then take me." Redding's fingers tangled in his hair,

pulling the long strands from his tail.

He rolled them, putting Redding beneath him. "I will."

Being buried inside Redding's body was becoming an
addiction.

Redding laughed, the sound daring him, pushing him.

"Excellent."

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"Oil," he growled, knees pushing between Redding's legs,

spreading them.

"Aye. And what will ye do with it?" Teasing bastard.
"Ready you for my prick, Red. Spread you with my

fingers." He blushed hard at saying the words, but he met
Redding's eyes. Redding jerked, those eyes going red-hot and
hungry. He'd keep talking, no matter how hard it was, for
that look. "Your arse feels so good around my prick."

"Aye. It's a fine arse. Made to sink your shaft into." Oh, his

pirate could turn the tables.

"Oil," he repeated, near to groaning from Redding's words.

He looked around wildly for the little vial, his prick rubbing
along behind Redding's balls.

The precious oil was pushed into his hand, Redding

groaning low. "Now."

He nodded, spilling some over his fingers and pushing one

into Redding's arse. This ritual, so foreign to him when he'd
first come aboard was familiar now, and his balls began to
ache, his body knowing what was coming. Redding spread,
thighs tight and hard, that hidden hole offered to him.

He quickly added a second finger, pushing them deep,

trying to find that spot that always made Redding jerk and
cry out. That tight hole gripped him, tugged at his fingers,
Redding arching under his touch. Tight, hot, with such soft
inner walls. "'Tis still unbelievable, Red."

"It will continue to be so, if there's a God in heaven."
He pushed in another finger into Redding, bending to take

that little ring into his mouth.

Galleons and Gangplanks

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"My dear giant." Redding's cry rang out, body jerking

around him.

"Yours." He pulled his fingers out, shifting until his prick

pressed against Redding's hole. "Mine."

"Yes. Deep and hard, now, fill me to the brim."
"Yes, Red."
Groaning, he pressed into Redding's body. The tight heat

wrapping around him. Redding arched, riding him with a sure,
desperate hunger. Redding's muscles clenched about him, the
slick channel holding his prick.

"I want to try this once," he told Redding, fascinated by

how much pleasure he saw in Redding's face.

"Only once?"
He tried to keep track of the conversation. "More than that

would depend."

"Depend on?" Redding was gasping, bucking beneath him.
"If it feels how you make it look." He twisted the ring, cock

pushing deeper and deeper.

"Better. Infinitely better."
"It can't be better than this." Nothing could be better than

the way Redding's body held him, squeezed him, pulled him
in.

"More..." Redding groaned, pulled him in deeper, body

squeezing tight.

He thrust harder, faster, sheathing himself in Redding over

and over again. He could feel his muscles working hard, his
skin breaking out in a sweat. The ropes holding the bedding
groaned and creaked, swaying with each of their thrusts. He

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could feel himself coming closer and closer to finishing,
Redding pulling the pleasure out of him, demanding it.

"Soon, Abraham. Soon. I need." Yes, he could see it in the

man's eyes, in the flush crawling up the thin chest.

He wrapped a hand around Abraham's prick, stroking the

heated length to match his thrusts.

"Yes." Long fingers plucked at the gold ring, the tiny ruby.
He bit his bottom lip and squeezed Redding's prick harder,

determined to make Redding finish before he did.

"Abraham!" Heat splashed over his fingers, the body

around him fluttering madly.

"Yes!" He thrust a few times more, letting that sweet

squeezing pull him over. He filled Redding with long pulses.

His most growly and tough pirate captain was relaxed and

quiet, smiling beneath him. Grinning a little smugly, he
slipped out of Redding's body and settled next to him on the
bed. He threw a leg over both of Redding's, his hand sliding
to cup a hip possessively.

"You look like the cat who drank up the cream." Redding

sighed happily, lips on his jaw.

"Do I?" He hummed and nuzzled against Redding's mouth.
"Mmmhmm." Redding smiled for him, teeth just teasing.
He pressed closer, his prick jerking as if to recover against

Redding's hip. "Tempter."

"We are no longer children, Abraham. I'm spent." Amused,

warm, sexual and fine, but spent.

"So what brought this about?" he asked, hand sliding to

take the ring between his fingers and tug. "And do you always
wear it when you in a mood?"

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"It was a gift and I was attempting to thank the giver. That

attempt was what made for my temper."

Abraham found himself bristling, his fingers tightening on

the ring. "A gift? From who?"

"A very old friend." Redding's eyes met his, dark and

warm, heated through.

He knew it wasn't fair, Redding had certainly not been

celibate all this time, nor was it right to expect him to have.
And Abraham didn't. Still, he found himself growling at that
look in memory of another man. He let the ring go lest he be
tempted to rip it off, and wrapped his hand back around
Redding's hip once more.

"You might remember her, the Lady Eleanor. She quite

took me under her wing, after I helped her destroy that flea-
bitten excuse of a husband."

"A woman?" he found himself quite shocked. "Why didn't

you settle with her then?" Redding could have been gentry,
could have salvaged his name and risen up in station.

"Why did you not take a wife, you fool?" Redding seemed

quite vexed.

He shook his head, remembering the girl his father had

chosen for him. A fair lass with rich parents, Abraham's own
father had been fair salivating at the thought of a union. All
he had to do was renounce his proclivities and become a
productive member of society. He could still hear the words
echoing in his father's low voice. "I could not. 'T'would have
been unfair to the both of us."

"Well, then, you have your answer. She is a friend, a dear

friend, but I did not search the seven seas for her."

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by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

That Redding had been looking for him all this time still

had not sunk in, as truth, seemed quite unreal. But the words
made him smile, eased that part of him that had become
tense at the mere thought of Redding wearing a gift the likes
of a ring for his nipple from another man.

He flicked the ring. "I could help you with your letter, Red.

If you still wanted to learn script."

Redding moaned softly, pushing up toward his touch. "I

remember some of what you taught me."

"Do you now? Like what?" he asked. They'd done far more

playing and frolicking together than lesson learning. He
flicked the ring again, still quite fascinated by the way it made
Redding writhe and move.

"I can draw my name well enough..."
"I imagine that puts you a step ahead of your crew." It put

Redding a step ahead of most folk, though on his island home
most of the townsfolk knew to do that. And just last year
they'd hired on a teacher who worked several weeks with
each family in return for food and board from whomever she
was teaching.

"The offer to teach you is open, Red, should you ever

decide to take me up on it." Even if he could think of things
he'd rather be doing with the pirate.

"I would..."
"Cap'n! Cap'n! Ship ahoy!"
Redding rolled up, reaching for his sword. "Coming, lads.

Man the cannons!"

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Abraham felt his stomach clench. "I will not help you take

a ship," he told Redding. He was no pirate. The ship moved
beneath them, changing direction.

"Then stay out of the way of my men." The look he got

was unconcerned, near icy. "I will not apologize for what I
am. What your father made me."

"And I will not help you steal from people like myself, like

the townsfolk back home." He stood and watched Redding
quickly dress. The last few weeks had been rather idyllic,
they'd lured him into ... believing that this exact situation
would not come up.

"That is, of course, your choice." Redding strapped his

pistol to his belt and headed for the door, calling for his men,
calling, "To arms, to arms."

Abraham shook his head, trying hard to reconcile the

youth he'd known and the man he'd made love to just a
moment ago, with this pirate captain who would be attacking
a passing ship. But as the ship shifted sharply again beneath
his feet, he could not deny that it was happening. He tugged
on his breeches and shrugged on a vest before grabbing
Redding's extra sword. Just in case.

He pulled the door open a crack and stood there, trying to

hear what was going on.

Shouts and orders to fire came first, the sounds of metal

hitting wood following soon after. Grappling hooks, if
Abraham guessed right, but it was confusing and impossible
to know who was trying to board whom. He slipped out the
door and headed slowly and quietly up the stairs; he'd make

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nothing useful out of the sounds if he could not also see what
was happening.

By the time he was abovedecks it was already pure

mayhem: lead balls flying, swords clanging in the air. It took
him a moment or two to distill the chaos down into the crew
of two ships, though once he'd oriented himself he could see
that the sailors that were attempting to board the Torn Heart
looked almost like military men, uniformed and well-paid.
They swarmed across the deck like a bunch of bugs scattering
in the light, engaging anyone they came across.

As he watched, one of the sailors from the other ship

landed behind Redding and crept up on him. When his shouts
were obviously unheard, Abraham took a deep breath and
launched himself in that direction. He was no pirate, but he
would not let his lover be hurt.

He slashed at one man who was in between him and

Redding's attacker, sending the man to the deck. Taking
several more steps, he gave a feral cry and brought his sword
down upon the attacker's sword arm, just before the man
could stab Redding in the back.

Redding spun about, blood on the man's cheek. "Abraham!

Get below! These are your father's men!" His lover spun
about, lashing at another man, sword sinking into the man's
neck. As he watched, a ball hit Redding's shoulder, a puff of
smoke heralding the red that spread over the white blouse.

His confusion over what Redding could mean that these

were his father's men disappeared as soon as he saw the
blood. "Red!" He grabbed the man and slung Redding over his

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shoulder and headed back for the captain's cabin, slashing at
anyone who dare come near.

"Below decks, you madman..." The ship lurched, a mighty

explosion sounding. "My ship!"

"Will she hold?" he asked, torn between getting Redding to

his cabin and going over the side with one of the rowboats.

"She will or I'll go down with her!" Redding slipped from

his grasp, knees buckling as the ship groaned. "Men! Fight for
her! I'll take the helm!"

"You're hurt!" He followed Redding to the wheel, cutting

down the men who tried to get to the pirate captain.

There was smoke and noise everywhere, the ship rocking

strangely underfoot. And the stain on Redding's shoulder was
growing. Redding screamed as he spun the wheel, the ship
shuddering violently as it lurched away. The other ship was
aflame, the sails licked by fire, sailors shuddering.

Abraham managed, just barely, to keep his footing, and he

continued to lash at anyone who came near who was not one
of Redding's men. That number grew smaller and smaller as
the ship limped away from the burning vessel they left
behind.

"Damage?" Redding stood, eyes blazing.
One-Eyed Pete growled. "We're taking water, Cap'n, but

she'll not founder. We're patching now. No fire. Thirteen
dead, eight wounded."

"Get the wounded seen to. Now."
"You, too," Abraham growled, eyeing Redding's shoulder.
"I am well." The hands around the wheel were white-

knuckled.

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He snorted. "Hey there, Jimmy! Who can take the wheel?"

he called out to one of Redding's men. "Captain's needed
below-decks."

"You're needed in the bilge, Giant! There's some casks

need moving!"

"Go, Abraham. Help the men. I'll stand firm."
"No. Someone else can do it—you've been shot!"
"And if the boat sinks, I'll be drowned. Go." Those eyes

met his, hard as stone. "Captain's orders."

He growled, hands curling into fists. He wasn't some cabin

boy to be ordered about!

"Giant! Ye heard the captain—get a move on!"
If he defied Redding in front of witnesses it would be

mutiny. "You get that shoulder seen to as soon as you find
someone to relieve you," he hissed for Redding's ears only.

"Go, my dear. I'll await you in my cabin."
"You'd better. Because if you expire I shall follow you into

Davy Jones' locker and drag you back myself."

Had they not an audience, he'd have sealed the words with

a kiss. Instead he only glared for a moment more and then
turned on his heel and headed off.

It would have been a better exit had the boat not lurched

and sent him careening into the mast.

He righted himself and, back stiff, continued on.

* * * *

Redding stood at the helm for hours—at first because he

needed to, then because he simply could not leave his post
without crashing to the boards.

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The ship had evened out, the word coming up that she'd

been patched as well as she could be. They'd find a port
before the winter hit, stay and settle, fix her up as she
deserved. Redding held tight, the feeling gone from his feet
now, the pain fading with the sunlight.

Abraham came striding up onto the deck, glaring. The

frown got deeper as his giant caught sight of him. "Red! What
are you still doing here?"

"St ... steering the ship. I ... I ... I need an ale."
"You've not seen the surgeon, have you?" Oh, that growl

was fine. If only he had the energy to appreciate it properly.

Abraham shouted across the deck. "Pete! Is there no one

to take the wheel?"

"Black Jim's about, I vow it." Pete bellowed for the man

and, God help him, Redding could do no more than stare.

"Take the wheel," growled Abraham the moment the man

came on deck. "The captain is needed below."

"Cap'n? You're white as a sail."
"Aye. I missed my supper."
Abraham threw an arm around his shoulder, nearly making

him collapse, but hiding the injury from his men. "His supper
and an ale. I'll make sure he gets both."

One step. Then another.
And another.
If it had not been for Abraham's heat beside him, he would

have fallen.

As soon as they were belowdecks, Abraham started

growling at him. "You should have called for someone to take
over."

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"I am captain, Abraham. I cannot afford weakness." He

coughed a bit, the pain within him flaring.

"You would die trying to look strong." Abraham

manhandled him into his cabin and lowered him down onto
the bed.

"You want me to call for the surgeon or remove the bullet

myself?"

"Remove it, if you can. There's rum and a knife in the

chest."

He grabbed a hank of bedding and tore it, twisting it to

make a gag. Abraham found the rum and took a long swig
before handing the bottle over. Then his giant grabbed knife
and used a candle to sterilize the blade. He drank deep,
gulping the burning liquid down until it lit a flame within him.
His shirt was torn open, the material giving way beneath
those big hands. Then Abraham turned him over, hissing as
he back was exposed. He shoved the gag into his mouth,
reminding himself that this was a tiny scar compared to the
others and he'd more than survived those.

"This'll hurt, Red." As if he needed Abraham to tell him

that. "I'll be as quick as I can."

He grunted and nodded. Just do the deed, man, and be

done with it.

Abraham's knee pressed his arse into the bed, and one big

hand held his shoulder down. Then the knife dug into his skin.
He screamed into the gag, the sound of metal against bone
grinding in his head. It seemed to take forever, Abraham
digging and cutting. It hurt like hell.

"Got it."

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He groaned, whimpering into the gag, fighting the urge to

void.

"I need to clean the wound, Red." Abraham sounded

apologetic about it, hand sliding along his good side, stroking
gently. He shook his head, growling low. No. No more. "If I
don't, it'll fester and you'll lose the arm."

Abraham's knee was still solid against his arse, keeping

him where he was. His giant leaned past him and grabbed a
new bottle. "It'll be over in a moment, Red."

Redding's eyes closed and his fingers clenched into the

sheets, the muscles in his shoulder screaming. The whiskey
poured into the wound, making him scream into the gag
again, burning him inside the shoulder.

Then Abraham wrapped something around his shoulder,

and the big hands turned him so he was lying on his good
side. "That's the best I can do, Red."

He kept his eyes closed, kept himself still. The gag was

gently pried from between his teeth and a cool piece of cloth
slid over his face. "Are you still with me?" Abraham asked.

"Y ... yes. Yes. I am." Barely. Painfully.
The cool touches continued, Abraham wiping the sweat

from his body. "Red ... you said those were my father's men.
What did you mean?"

"Your father's ships have always been my focus. He has as

big a hatred for me as he always has, even if he does not
remember me from before." His men knew to hunt the lord's
ships and the lord's men knew to fear him, despise him.

"He's taken you away from me once before, Red. I will not

let him do so a second time." His giant's hands slid on his

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skin, one still holding the cool cloth, the other simply touching
gently.

"His men will kill me one day, I have faith in that, but it

will not be today."

"They will have to kill me first. I vow it."
"Shh. All will be well." Either that or he'd be sent to Davy

Jones' locker. Either way.

"It will be." That tone was still in Abraham's voice, the

sound of a vow, sure and strong. "For I will not lose you
again. Not to piracy, not to my father's men. Not to
anything."

He attempted to agree, to nod, but his pain and exhausted

worked to pull him beneath the waves of slumber.

Abraham would either be correct, or not.

Galleons and Gangplanks

by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

Chapter Three
Abraham stayed with Redding for a short while, watching

over the pirate captain as the man slept.

He knew, though, that he needed to put in time helping

finish the repairs on the ship, and with a last look at Redding,
he headed above decks. He spent hours helping Jamaican
Zeet fix the rigging, and his strength was needed to help shift
the goods in the hold, evening the ship's weight. All in all, he
was too busy working to think too hard on Redding's health,
his father's ships, and what the two might have to do with
each other.

Long hours later he grabbed his and Redding's shares of

stew, bread and ale, and headed back below, hoping to find
Redding well on the way to mended. The man was pale,
barring the red mass of cloth at his shoulder and the bright
spots on his cheeks.

A cabin boy stood at the side of the bed, cloths in hand,

replacing heated rags with cooled ones. Bright blue eyes
stared up at him. "Mr. Giant. Cap'n gave orders not to fetch
you."

"And you didn't fetch me, Billy. Did he tell you not to fetch

the surgeon either?" Abraham felt Redding's forehead, hissing
at the heat. The man had a fever, the wound no doubt
festering.

"Cap'n says the Bones are devils, sir."
Abraham sighed. Redding was not alone in that thought;

his little island town had often been without a doctor of any

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kind, Abraham himself doing his best to patch people up. "Let
me see the wound, boy."

"Yes, sir." The wound was red and raw, the muscles

evident in the worst of it.

"Has there been puss with the blood, Billy?" If it wasn't

coming out on its own, they would have to cut into the wound
so that it drained.

"No, sir. There ain't been much, 'til he jerked a bit ago and

tore it open."

"Fetch me more hot cloths." He sat on the edge of the bed

and pulled the cloth away from Redding's wound, wincing.

"Yes, sir. Thank you." The lad ran like the hounds of hell

were after him.

He took the same knife he'd used to dig out the bullet and

ran it through the flames of Redding's candle several times.
Then, tilting Redding so the blood and, hopefully, puss would
run out, he dug the knife into the wound again.

When he pulled it out a gush of blood and puss followed,

far more than the already blood soaked cloth could hold and
fouling the sheets. Redding groaned, tugging away, arms and
legs flailing.

"No!" Abraham grabbed hold of Redding and made him

stop moving. "You'll spread the infection if you move too
much. Let it drain so you can heal." He leaned in to whisper in
Redding's ear. "I'll not lose you again, Red. Not to this." Not
to anything.

"Abraham..." The voice was weak, but Redding was there.

Hearing him.

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"Right here, Red." He held onto Redding, watching as the

flow of blood and puss slowed. The question was, had it all
come out. He worried that it hadn't, the slowing blood still not
entirely clear.

"I need to make another puncture."
"You'll kill him, sir! Don't poke him! Look at the blood!"

Poor Billy looked about to take flight.

He shook his head, and held a hand out. "No. Come and

see. The blood is full of infection. If we don't make it all come
out he'll surely die. Give me those cloths now."

"Should I get the rum?" These pirates, believing all things

were cured by it.

"Yes. It'll help ease the pain if he drinks it." He managed a

smile for Billy, and then ran the knife through the flame
again. "Go now if you don't wish to watch me do this." The
words growled from him—it pained him to deliberately hurt
Redding like this, but he knew of no other way to do this.

Fortunately for him, Redding was too far gone to do more

than shudder, a new gout of rot spilling from him. The blood
ran clear then, the swollen heat seeming to fade. He breathed
a sigh of relief. He did not know if he had it in him to cut the
man a third time, and to lose even more blood might have
been more than Redding's body could withstand.

When Billy returned, he and the boy moved Redding over

enough that they could strip the fouled bedding, and put new
coverings down. He wrapped Redding's shoulder in a clean
cloth and gave Billy the bloodied and fouled cloths and
bedding. "Toss it all overboard. And don't be seen."

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"You ... you'll speak for me with the Cap'n, yes? Tell 'im I

did good?"

"I will, Billy. As long as you make sure you don't let slip

that he's hurt." He took Billy's arm and looked into the
earnest blue eyes. "And he will get better, Billy. He's on the
mend now and will be shouting orders in no time." The words
were for his own benefit as well as Billy's.

"Course he will. He's a good captain." Billy offered him a

weak smile, a nod.

"Go on, Billy, you've done well."
As the door closed behind the cabin boy, Abraham turned

his attention back to Redding. "Did you hear that, Red? Don't
be making a liar out of me."

Those black eyes stared at him, not focused, not seeing,

but open. He stroked Redding's forehead, feeling fiercely
protective, possessive. "Once you're well we will have our
revenge." Redding blinked, pressed toward his touch.

He lay down with Redding, drawing the pirate closer and

continuing to touch, to soothe. "You see? You have to live
now, Red. To see that."

His pirate's breath slowed, the mad panting easing into

something more reasonable. The heat of the Redding's body
seemed more reasonable now as well, and Abraham couldn't
help but breathe a sigh of relief.

"M..my giant." Redding licked the dry, cracked lips.
"Aye. Yours."
Redding needed water, and Abraham wondered if there

was any he could trust aboard the ship. But he was loath to

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leave Redding just now. Luckily, Billy returned, carrying
another tray with water and broth.

He sat up abruptly, still not used to the easy acceptance

the sailors aboard the pirate ship held for men together.
"Thank you, Billy. I'll feed him." There was that feeling again,
the possessiveness.

"You sure? I don't mind. I can do it."
He managed not to growl, knowing the boy was only trying

to help. "Why don't you get your own supper and see if you
can hear what's being said about the captain?"

"Aye, sir. I can do that. The Cap'n, he's been good to me.

Took me in and give me enough to eat."

"He's a good man." Abraham found that he meant it. He

knew that Redding was a pirate, knew the man looted ships
and killed sailors. But Redding was a good man.

"Aye. I'll get me grub and listen and be back to report, Mr.

Giant."

"Good lad."
He turned his attention back to Redding, hoping the man

was still awake enough to manage some broth and water. He
dabbed the broth on those dry lips, Redding groaning at the
act. "You need to take in the liquid, Red."

He dabbed some more on Redding's lips. "Do you

remember when we were boys and you nearly died from the
fevers after being out in the rain all night walking my horse?"
He'd never been that frightened before, running from the
stables to his nursemaid and begging for her help. Redding'd
been ghost-white then, jabbering nonsense about imaginary
horses and flights of fancy.

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"I snuck out of my bed that night and came to sleep with

you. Remember? If father had found out, he would have
tanned both our hides. But I had to know that you were all
right." It had only taken twelve hours for them to know
Redding would pull through, but to the lad he'd been, it had
seemed far longer.

Redding's hand moved, reaching out for him. Yes. Please

Lord. Yes.

He took Redding's hand, wrapping their fingers together.

"Some things do not change, do they?"

"No. Some ... some things are eternal."
"Eternal. I like the way that sounds." He smiled, slipping a

spoonful of broth between Redding's lips.

Redding took the broth in, coughing just a bit.
"Careful now. It would be shame to have cut you so badly

to get rid of the poisons only to have you choke to death."

"More scars. Always more scars."
"You're in the wrong line of work, Red, if you wanted to

avoid them." He fed another spoonful of broth into Red's
mouth.

"Indeed. I came into this work with them, I will leave it

with them."

"Would you give it up?" Abraham asked the question

casually, as if it were of little importance.

"I have a ship of men to care for."
"And if you die? Who will care for them then?"
"I don't ... I don't know."
"If you figure it out you could escape this life, Red." They

could make a go of it on his island. He had land, a home.

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"I have no other life. Look at me..."
"I am looking. I look as often as I can."
Redding smiled at him, eyes closing. "I am not beautiful."
"No, that's not the word I would use." He stroked

Redding's forehead. "Handsome. Striking. Those are more
accurate."

"Is the ship sound?"
"Faring better than you, I'll wager." Trust the man to be

more worried about his ship than himself. He picked up the
water. "Will you drink?"

"Is it rum?"
Abraham rolled his eyes. "No. Drink it anyway."
"Spoilsport." Redding drank deep, throat working.
He chuckled. "You pirates put far too much faith in your

rum."

"It is a gift from the Heavens themselves."
"And here I thought that was me," he teased, encouraging

Redding to finish the mug.

"You are better than a gift."
His cheeks heated. "Red..." The things his pirate captain

said.

"Mmmhmm." Red was dozing again, breathing slow and

steady.

He stroked Redding's hair from his face, watching as

Redding's chest slowly rose and fell. "Sleep well, Red. I'll not
leave your side."

And he knew, deep down, that he meant more than just

until Redding woke again.

* * * *

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He faded in and out of sleep for what seemed days, the

burning and itching within him quite maddening. Every time
he opened his eyes, Abraham was there. Watching. Touching.
Speaking to him.

His giant.
His love.
This time was different only in that Abraham was asleep,

snoring slightly as the great chest rose and fell.

Redding struggled to sit up, fighting not to wake his lover

as he staggered to the chamber pot. Ached. He ached, deep
down, but the burn was gone, the infernal itch.

He'd finished his business when a groan came from the

bed. "Red? Redding?" Abraham jumped up. "Oh. There you
are."

"Yes." He swayed, heading back to the bed on unsteady

feet.

Abraham growled a little and met him more than halfway,

arm going around his waist and steadying him against the
solid body. "You should have woken me."

"You slept like the dead." He allowed himself to lean more

fully, take advantage of his giant's strength.

"You tried to wake me?" Abraham sounded surprised.
"No." He'd thought upon waking the man.
Abraham lowered him to the bed. "You should have woken

me," his giant repeated, lifting the bandage.

The cloth tugged some, making him hiss. The pain was not

unbearable, though, just a tug and a deep ache.

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"Sorry," murmured Abraham, free hand sliding across his

face in a soothing touch he'd become quite familiar with over
the last days. "It's looking better. The infection is definitely
gone and it's healing."

"Good. Did you carve your name into me?" Surely his giant

could live up to a little tease.

Abraham chuckled, fingers soft as they traced the wound.

"'Twould have been less painful, I'd wager, had I done so."
Abraham put a new cloth on his shoulder, tossing the old one
toward the door where he noticed there were two already.

"How long has it been?"
Abraham didn't meet his eyes. "Five days." Then the blue

eyes met his again. "I told them you were below decks
drinking off your anger and plotting revenge. Billy backed me
up and there's enough rum stacked in the corner to poison
anyone."

"Five days? By Poseidon himself, I ought to be dead." He

ought to dress and head abovedecks, give his men the sight
of him.

"You very nearly were dead. You wouldn't believe the

foulness that came from your shoulder." Abraham was
hovering. He should have known his giant would be the
mothering sort.

"I would. I have seen men's bodies spurt the vilest things."
"Aye, perhaps you have at that. I would prefer not seeing

yours eject anything else in the future. Well..." Abraham's
cheeks heated suddenly.

He laughed so hard he thought he might reopen his

wounds, belly jerking with it.

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"Careful," growled Abraham. "You'll hurt yourself. And it

wasn't that amusing."

"I don't know, my giant. I am mightily amused."
Abraham harrumphed, but the corner of his mouth

twitched. Redding reached out, tickling and teasing
Abraham's hip.

His giant jerked and gave a surprised sounding laugh.

"You'll tear your wound open again!"

"Perhaps that would ease the pressure."
"I don't think you could take the loss of blood, Red."

Abraham hesitated. "If we put into port somewhere, the ship
could be fixed properly and you could see a surgeon, make
sure you are healing properly."

"I won't see a butcher." He took a deep breath, rolling his

shoulders.

"And you won't, as long as you can keep saying so." He

was given a stern look, and then Abraham stood and went
over to the table, bringing back a bowl with a spoon. "It's
broth. You need to eat."

"Is there no meat on this entire ship?" He growled low,

tired of soft food and feeling the lack of rum.

Abraham growled back at him. "Do you always growl at

people who are trying to help you? You can feed yourself or I
can do it for you."

"I believe I do and I'll feed m'self. I'm no invalid."
Abraham snorted and handed him the bowl and then

crossed his arms. "Help yourself."

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His fingers trembled and he had never remembered a bowl

being so heavy, but he managed a few bites before giving up.
He needed to go abovedecks.

"Surely you want more than that." Abraham growled and

grabbed the bowl from him, holding a spoonful of the broth to
his lips. "Eat."

"You have become quite growly, giant." He took the bite,

the warmth soothing him.

"I thought you might die." Another spoonful of liquid was

pushed between his lips. "And now you you're as weak as a
kitten."

"A lion, perhaps. You know I've seen one, in a cage down

around the cape."

"A lion? Truly? Alive?" Abraham looked fascinated.
"Indeed. A huge male—your head could fit within his

mouth."

Abraham chuckled. "Now you're teasing me."
"I vow it." He leaned back, met Abraham's eyes. "The

animals there are the most unusual I have ever seen. Great
cats, striped horses. Elephants as tame as dogs."

"Those would be sights to see, Red. Maybe one day I

shall..." It was the first time Abraham had spoken of the
future as something other than returning to his island home.

"We should. You can eat foods that taste sweet for the first

moment on your tongue, then burn like fire." Oh, he would
keep Abraham. He would keep the man for an eternity.

Abraham shook his head. "By God, Red, I'm half convinced

you're making it up." His giant looked quite intrigued.

"I am not. I have sailed the seas, searching for you."

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"And will you sail them again to keep me?" Abraham

asked.

"I will do whatever I must, Abraham." He put all of his

need, his rage, his desire into those words.

Abraham took a deep breath. "You nearly died, Red. I

won't lose you a second time. I don't ... I'm a protector, not a
pirate, but I won't let you go."

The words settled within him, solid and sure. "I hope you

will never be offered the choice to cut me free."

"It wouldn't make a difference, I won't." Abraham got up

and walked to the porthole, looking out. "For good or ill, I
won't."

He stood on shaky legs, reaching for Abraham's back. "My

dear giant."

"Your own," murmured Abraham. As his hand slid over

Abraham's back, his giant turned and caught him about the
waist, steadying him. "I wager you're the most stubborn man
I know."

"That, my dear giant, will never change." He lifted his face

for a kiss, his matted hair tugging his head back.

"Good," muttered Abraham against his lips, and then he

was being kissed, Abraham's mouth hard and almost
desperate.

He opened, allowing Abraham in, giving Abraham's fear

what it needed. Abraham was careful of his shoulder,
nonetheless he was pulled up against the solid body, the kiss
going deeper. He groaned into the kiss, shivering. He needed
to bathe, to go abovedecks, to regain his life.

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When the kiss ended, Abraham rested their foreheads

together. "You're rank, Red. Let me wash you."

"Romantic." His laughter bubbled from him. "Please.

Please, I would do near anything to scrape off a layer of dirt."

Abraham led him back to the bed, and stripped his

breeches from him. He was weak enough that when Abraham
pushed him down, he went easily, sitting with a thump.

It surprised him, his weakness. The way he shook. "You'll

help me bathe?"

"I don't know, Red. Slide water over you, touch you..."

Abraham shook his head. "You ask a lot of me." His giant
couldn't hide the twitch at the corner of his mouth, though.

"I will have you most slowly flogged, my dear."
"I have heard rumors of such wickedness. Trust you to

indulge in them." That was definitely a smile on his giant's
mouth as a bowl of water was brought over to the bed.

"Aye. I have a handful of the odd habits." He stretched,

body reaching for the water.

Abraham pulled back, grin fading to shock. "I was just

joking!"

"Abraham. You have seen my men. Do they seem ill-

treated to you?" He had floggings only rarely, only when he
had no choice.

"No, Redding. They are not." Abraham drew closer again,

wet cloth in his hand. "And I have seen your back. I know
that you have tasted the lash."

"I have. Bone-deep." And he was not ashamed of a single

cut.

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"I would pay my father back in kind, lash for lash, Red,"

his giant told him as the solid hands began to clean him.

"You would not. You are a better man than I."
"Am I?" The cloth was soft and gentle, but Abraham was

thorough, cleaning every part of him, the stench and dirt
slowly washing away.

"Yes..." His eyes closed, something within him easing—

some pain that he had forgotten he held.

Abraham cleaned his legs and his feet, the cloth tickling

between his toes. "I don't think you're nearly so terrible as
you'd like people to believe."

"No? I am a vicious pirate, the scourge of the seas."
"Oh, yes, you look very scourge-like. I'm positively

terrified." Abraham chuckled, cloth coming back to clean his
balls and cock, so gentle and careful.

"You might attempt a bit more shivering and shuddering.

Perhaps some cowering." He spread wide, moaning low.

"What if I just kneel before you?" his giant asked,

matching action to words, and smiling up at him.

"Abraham..." He stared down, licked his lips.
"I think I missed a spot," murmured Abraham, eyes on his

as his giant bent to lick at his prick.

"A ... abraham." His flaccid shaft jerked, threatening to fill.
"You think you're up to this?" Abraham asked him, tongue

dragging across the tip of his prick, slow and hot.

"I believe we'll never know, 'lest we attempt it."
Abraham's chuckle was low and sweet, breathing warm air

over his prick. "Then we'd best attempt."

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That tongue slid across his flesh again, and then Abraham

nuzzled beneath, licking at his sacs.

"Abraham." His prick throbbed, filling slowly.
"Mmm ... look at that." Abraham dragged a stubbled cheek

up along his cock, and then turned to lick at the tip again.

"I. You have an amazing heat, Giant." His eyes fell closed,

his moan near desperate.

"I'll share it with you," rumbled Abraham, mouth

surrounding the head of his prick. The suction was quite
fierce, Abraham's tongue playing around the head, stabbing
now and then into his slit.

His giant had become quite good at this in the weeks

they'd been together. He groaned as he moved, trying to
drive up into that mouth, trying not to hurt himself. A pair of
big hands landed on his hips, holding them down, and
Abraham's growl vibrated around his cock. The maddening
touches continued, sucking and licking and teasing.

"I. Abraham." He groaned as he reached down, fingers

tangling in the thick, silken strands of Abraham's hair.

Abraham moaned this time, head beginning to move. The

tight lips slid down quite slowly over his prick, and then came
back up again, Abraham's tongue finding his slit again. Full
and aching, he rolled up, pushing into Abraham's lips, pushing
deep. Abraham's fingers dug into his hips and pushed him
down again, his giant's head bobbing faster, taking him in
deep again and again; Abraham taking control.

Oh, he might reach his climax. He might be ... "Oh..." His

thighs went taut, his belly aching it pulled so.

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The suction increased, Abraham finally letting go of his

hips, and taking him in deep. Abraham's throat swallowed
around the tip of his prick. The seed poured from him, the act
almost a shock to his exhausted body, the pleasure enough to
send him gasping, eyes closing.

Abraham continued to suck gently, tongue cleaning him.

Then Abraham rested his head against Redding's thigh. "I've
been craving that flavor for days."

"I. My giant." His fingers shook, tangled in Abraham's hair,

simply holding on.

"Aye, Red. Yours. Through and through." One hand slid

along his thigh, petting him.

Perhaps he would wait another moment to go above-

board...

Just another moment.

Galleons and Gangplanks

by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

Chapter Four
Redding had slept yet another night, but this time there

was no sweat, no delirium, just restful, healing sleep. Morning
found the skies blue, the ship rolling evenly, and Redding
looking more like himself.

Abraham followed the man abovedecks. He remained silent

and attempted not to hover. He did glower at anyone who
looked like they might give Redding trouble.

"Cap'n. You haven't died."
Redding arched a dark eyebrow, stared the speaker down.

"I did not."

The first mate came up, short and wide where Redding

was tall. "Tis good ye came up, laddie. There's been talk."

"Heaven forefend, matey. I wouldn't want there to be

talk." Redding's hand landed on his firearm.

Abraham tensed, ready to leap to Redding's defense,

glaring harder. Even as he stood protectively at Redding's
side, it occurred to him now, that Redding hardly needed his
protection. The man was a force to be sure, and knew how to
handle his crew.

Still, Abraham could not forget the red blooming on

Redding's white blouse, nor the fever that had wracked the
tall frame, the tremble yesterday as Redding had stood. He
could no more deny his need to protect Redding now as he
had not back in England, than he could deny himself another
breath.

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"We just thought, mebbe, that ye'd fallen and the giant

there wouldn't speak to it." This from another man, black as
pitch.

"Then you should waste less time thinking." Redding

stared down each man as they came.

Abraham was impressed. At the same time he had to again

reconcile this hard man with the lad he'd known; he had to
reconcile his and his father's role in the changes. He had to
admit, this man thrilled him in a way he'd never even known
to want.

Little Billy came up and offered the captain his hat. "I

found it up by the wheel, Cap'n."

"Thank you, sweet lad." Redding stroked one cheek,

plopping the hat atop his head.

Billy beamed up at Redding. "You're welcome, Cap'n."
As if it were a signal, most of the rest of the men came

and clapped the captain on the back. Abraham winced on
Redding's behalf—that had to be jolting that shoulder.

"So, mateys. We need to find a port, aye? Somewhere to

put our lady luck up and patch her right."

"St-Mary's," Abraham said immediately. "Unless the men

you left there have mistreated the townsfolk, they should be
happy enough to have you. I'll insist that ye pay for anything
ye need though. This will not be a pillaging."

"Looks like your giant is looking to head home, Cap'n."
"Aye, matey." Redding's chin lifted, "I'll take the wheel."
Abraham waited until they were alone, Redding looking ...

right behind the wheel, before speaking again. "I trust my
suggestion was not out of place."

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"No. I trust you don't believe I will leave you behind."
Something inside Abraham relaxed at that. He hadn't

wanted Redding to think he was eager to get away. "You
haven't yet shown me the wonders of the world, Red."

"I haven't. I haven't even begun to be tired of you."
Tire of him? One of his eyebrows rose. "Do you think you

will?"

"No. If that would have happened, I would not have

searched so long." The wind caught Red's hair, the black
braids flying wildly.

He grunted, and licked his lips. "Good." He watched

Redding a few moments longer. The pirate captain looked
stronger and better just being out in the open. "The sea suits
you, Red."

"She is my mistress, you know." Those black eyes

twinkled, face glowing with the kiss of the breeze.

"Should I be jealous?" he asked, wondering if it came

down to it, if Redding would choose her over him.

"Would it do you a bit of good if you were?"
"I imagine I can live with her being your mistress. As long

as she's the only one."

"She is the only one in my heart, beyond you. That is filled

enough."

He reached out, and touched Redding's arm, nothing more

than that, just needing the connection for a moment. "Once
we've refitted the ship, Red, what then?"

"We sail for the Spice Islands to winter there amongst our

own kind."

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"So we'll not have to worry about fighting off the likes of

my father's men?" That sat well with him. It would give
Redding time to heal completely.

"No. Your father's men would not dare." Redding rolled his

shoulders, eyes looking out over the water, seeming to
search.

"He is a coward," growled Abraham. "Hiding behind whips

and guns."

"He is a wealthy coward with ships full of booty." Redding

looked almost amused, the smile wicked as an imp.

That surprised a laugh out of Abraham. "Booty which

you're more than happy to relieve him of." He chuckled again.
"Do you know, I believe all you are doing in fact is aiding me
in acquiring my inheritance a little early."

"That is a good way to consider it, my dear. Taking

payment for what we are owed." The wheel creaked, pushing
Redding's hands.

It certainly sat better in his mind, thinking of it that way.

"Would you teach me to sail her?" he asked. If he was going
to make this his life, he'd best know all he could.

"I can." Redding held one hand out to him, motioning him

to the wheel.

Grinning, he took Redding's hand and squeezed before

stepping up next to Redding, standing close. Redding stood
behind him, hands wrapped around his, his lover stretching to
reach around him, twine their fingers about the wheel. It was
almost as good as sex, their bodies close, the wheel vibrating
in his hands. He was hard, his prick pushing against his
breeches, and he felt unbelievably alive.

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"Red..."
"Aye, Abraham. You see, do you not?"
"She's alive, and the ocean beneath her..." He stood there

between Redding and the wheel, letting the sensations move
through him; the wind and the vibrations the scent of sea salt
and the warmth of Redding's body ... all of it good.

"Yes." Redding was hard, solid, moving against him where

their coats hid them.

He moaned softly, letting the movements of the ship push

his arse back against Redding.

"My giant." Redding's breath brushed his hair, lips on the

leather strap that bound it.

"Yours, my pirate," he murmured back, hands gripping the

wheel harder.

"Aye, and I'll lose you to no one. Feel the tug of the sea?

She wants to toss the ship about and we have to best her."

"I do feel. It must be nigh on impossible to control on a

stormy day." He could feel the danger of it in his hands; he
could feel how that excitement could be addictive.

"You don't control it; you work with it and pray." Redding's

fingers stroked over his.

He was mesmerized by that touch, by the strong body at

his back. "There's no wonder you like it so much then." The
sea was not the only thing uncontrollable.

"It is my life. My home."
"Mine as well now." Though his passion was less for the

sea and more for the pirate captain. He leaned back into
Redding, letting the wiry strength hold him.

Galleons and Gangplanks

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"Yes." And didn't Redding sound satisfied with that,

bollocks to bones.

Cocky bastard.
Wicked pirate captain.
Abraham wouldn't have him any other way.
"Does being at the wheel always make you hard?" he

asked after a while.

"No. Being at the wheel with your arse against me makes

me ache."

"Such a wicked mouth," he murmured. "I must admit that

standing so ... it makes me want to feel you within me, Red."

"It is a good thing, to anticipate, to excite yourself." That

heavy cock pressed closer.

He pushed back, let Redding's prick rub against his arse.

He would be begging for it if they stood out here as long as
Redding usually took the wheel for. Clearing his throat, he
nodded. "There is a freedom out here to do that." Yet another
reason the sea drew Redding, he was sure.

"Indeed. Some men were not meant to be caged."
"No one will ever cage you, Red." Not as long as he had

breath in his body. He would do better by Redding this time
around.

"No. No one will." One of Redding's hands left his on the

wheel, fingers brushing his belly.

His fingers tightened on the wheel, his breath drawing in

with a gasp. And his prick pushed even harder at his
breeches, trying to reach Redding's hand. Redding did not
further the touch, simply touched his stomach, his torso,
fingers playing him like a lute.

Galleons and Gangplanks

by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

He stood there gripping the wheel until his fingers were

white, and biting his lip against his moans as the sweet
torture continued. He could not have stopped the way his
arse moved back against Redding even if he had wanted to,
and he rubbed up against his pirate's prick like an animal in
heat.

"Mmm. I feel you, my dear, feel you in my bones."

Redding's tongue was wicked and heated, sliding on his skin.

"I..." he gasped softly, and closed his mouth, unable to

form words, not even really seeing though his eyes were open
and staring. All he knew was wrapped up in the man who
surrounded him.

"Yes, my dear. You. You who care for me, so well."
"I do." The words were little more than a growl, his body

flooded with need, with want; Redding's touches enflaming
him. He could feel Redding shudder against him, feel the
hitching breath his lover took.

"When..." His word was cut off by a moan as Redding's

prick slid along his crease. "When can we go belowdecks?"
Redding might think anticipation a good thing, but Abraham
was beginning to feel that too much of it was, well, too much.

"I believe you have had a well-learned lesson." Redding's

hand cupped his balls, rolled them. Moaning again, he spread
his legs, giving Redding more room. He trusted that the wheel
would hide Redding's actions from any casual observers.

"Will you spend for me, here, with the wind in your face

and the sea spray upon your lips? Or shall we go below?"

He gasped, the very thought wicked, enticing. "I want

both, Red."

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"Then you shall have it." The hand upon him moved,

rubbing and rolling his sacs.

He kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, the vibrations from

the wheel and the sensations given by his Redding merging
together. He wondered briefly if he would ever be able to
stand at the wheel and not remember this, ever taste the kiss
of the wind and spray upon his lips without feeling Redding's
hands on him.

Another moan was torn from his throat, his hips moving,

rubbing between Redding's hand and prick.

"I have never needed another as I need you." The soft

words rang with truth, like a prayer.

"Yours," he whispered. A shudder went through him and

his knees nearly buckled, only Redding's strength behind him
keeping him upright.

"My own." His sacs were squeezed, so carefully.
"Soon, Red. Please." His eyes tried to roll, but he kept

them firmly on the waves, the wind keeping his cheeks from
overheating.

"Yes. Soon. Spend for me, my giant, and I will take you

below decks."

Below decks where Redding would have him as he'd had

Redding more than once. His buttocks clenched, his hips
snapping as he came.

"Red," he hissed, the wood of the wheel creaking in his

hands.

"Yes. My cabin. I'll find another to take the wheel."

Redding's voice was a hiss against his ear. "I want you
spread, ready for me."

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His eyes widened at the harsh order. "Red. I ... Yes,

Captain."

The kiss on his jaw near burned him. "Yes."
He managed to pry his hands off the wheel, and he headed

belowdecks without looking back at Redding. He didn't tarry
or linger anywhere, just made his way as quickly as possible
to Redding's quarters. He was near panting when he closed
the door behind him, his prick already hard again.

He'd never. But he wanted to. With Red.
Except he'd expected to be here with Redding when it

happened.

And yet. His prick jerked at the memory of those hissed

words and he started pulling off his clothing. Trembling with
anticipation, with need, and with nerves, he lay on the bed,
face buried in the pillows.

So focused was he on the need inside him that he missed

the door opening, but he could not miss the touch of a wet,
hot tongue to his hole, Redding's hands on his thighs. He
cried out into the pillow, his whole body going tight.

The touch didn't back away, just continued, pushing and

licking, pressing into him and offering him such pleasure.
With a soft keen, he began to push back into it, shudders
rocking him. He'd never dreamed it would feel like this.

Redding's tongue took him, the man's thumbs rubbing the

sensitive skin behind his sacs. His nerves gave way
completely to the sensations that rocked through him,
Redding making him fly. He spread his legs wider, pushing
back and offering himself right over.

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Higher and higher, Redding pushed him, played him, made

him need. Then the heat of Redding's tongue was gone,
replaced with the thick pressure of his lover's cock. His body
tightened up again and he forced himself to breathe, to relax.
He remembered the pleasure on Redding's face when he'd
done this.

"Do it," he ordered.
"You have my heart, Abraham." The words were whispered

against his spine, Redding pressing within. He'd never felt
anything so big, so overwhelming; the combination of
Redding's word and his cock pressing in were almost too
much.

Redding's hands moved constantly, stroking him, holding

him, adoring him as if he were the most precious thing. He
whimpered and moaned, every touch, every stroke better
than the last. Hands curling into the sheets, he rocked back
to meet Redding's next thrust, nearly screaming as something
inside him exploded in hot, white pleasure.

"Aye. Aye, there. You see? You see why I ache to feel you

take me?" Redding pounded into him, pegging that spot again
and again.

"Yes!" Yes, he saw. He felt, he wanted.
And Redding gave him all he wanted and more. So much

more. Nothing else existed but the slap of their bodies, the
push of Redding's prick into his arse. The man's hand as it
wrapped around his cock. All it took was that one touch and
Abraham was shouting, seeing stars as the heat sprayed out
of him. Heat pulsed within him, Redding whispering his name
again and again.

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He reached back, searching for another point of contact.

Redding's fingers curled around his, holding on tight.

"Red?" he waited until his lover grunted. "I want you to do

that again."

"Now?"
"What? No! I mean. No, not now." He chuckled, squeezed

Redding's hand. "But again. Sometime. I liked it." His voice
faded away.

"Aye. Again and again. You are enough to drive a man

mad."

"Me? What about you? You are the pirate!"
"Aye. Your own pirate." Redding slid free of him.
He made a soft noise, feeling suddenly very empty.

Redding's heat curled against his side, Redding's hands
moving over his skin. He pressed close, the touches easing
that feeling of emptiness. He looked up and met the black
eyes, held them. "You have my heart as well, Red. You
always have."

"Good." The smile he received warmed him, deep down.
He knew he'd never return to St-Mary's, not to stay. And

he'd not go back to England. That smile reassured him that it
didn't matter.

He'd found what he'd lost, found his home in the form a

pirate captain.

Galleons and Gangplanks

by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

The White City
By Julia Talbot
Chapter One
If I were wealthy or somehow related to nobility, I might

be able to buy my way out of this mess.

I am not, however, either of those. No, indeed, Jem

Nettles is nothing but a sailor. First mate on the Adrianna
Gayle, in fact. Cutting into the profits of a Barbary Coast
pirate will normally get a man killed.

Why I am still alive and in chains somehow escapes me.
I know that the curse of Algiers is slavery. People are

bought and sold every day in the streets, hundreds of them. I
know too that able bodied men are a premium, as many of
the Barbary pirates still need rowers.

The fact is that I am not a good bet.
So, while I am glad to be alive, and know I should not

question it, I do. I question everything.

Why would anyone wonder how I managed to get

impressed into the navy, hmm? Trouble is my lot in life.

Still, as captivity goes, this is not nearly as bad as the

three weeks I once spent in a gaol in Naples. The
accommodations are much cleaner, the guards less likely to
hit first and ask later. And I will not begin to describe the
fortnight I spent in the hold of a Portuguese galleon beyond
foul.

The sun shines brightly beyond the slitted windows on the

third day of my latest captivity. The two big guards I have
seen when I receive food and water come to collect me. They

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grab me, one on either side, and drag me down a long
corridor with many studded-wood doors. I can hear the sound
of tinkling water; that, more than even the heavy woven
rugs, tells me how rich my captor is.

Interesting. How novel, that I might be taken before the

emir, or sheik, or whatever these people call their leaders,
only to be killed.

Or perhaps they had just found someone who would take

me on one of their ships. To spend an eternity chained to an
oar. I can tell you how the thought thrills me.

Finally they bring me to a room with double doors nearly

double the height of my own head, the sound of them as they
open like a death knell. Bright. The room is bright and white
and stark, with only a few of the profusion of rugs I might
have expected. There was one large piece of furniture, a
writing table, the likes of which I have never seen outside of
the Barbary coast.

Writing is not a skill I admit to, though I did learn it in my

youth. It seems smarter to let my fellow sailors view me as
simple Jem, rather than Jeremiah Nettles, son of a vicar.

The man behind the desk surprises me. Oh, to start he

looks no different than the two brutes who have dragged me
into the room. His dark head, bent over his work, is close-
cropped and curly, and his skin is sun-darkened to a deep
bronze. His eyes, when he looks up however, are a blazing
blue.

They give me a shock, freezing me in place when I should

perhaps be struggling and making myself as unpleasant as
possible, so as to be sent away. I will have a much better

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by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

time escaping if I am where no one takes notice of me. This
room is not that place.

The man rises, coming around the desk to appraise me,

his hands clasped loosely behind his back. His long nose
wrinkles and a soft spate of the Arab language issues from
him.

I expect laughter, but what I get is two apologetically

bowing servants, both of them all but groveling.

Those eyes meet mine again, one fine black brow rising

above them. "You stink," he says, in perfectly accented
English.

"Indeed," I agree immediately. "If you'll only release me, I

shall go and find a brothel forthwith, and bathe myself until
my skin shines."

His brows snap together for a moment, before he laughs

softly, the sound much like his tinkling fountain. Musical.

"I think not, Mister Nettles. I vow, you are the most

interesting thing to come through my doors in an age."

He could have said that I had a monkey in a fez sitting

upon my shoulder and it would not shock me. That he knows
my name, however, leaves my mouth hanging open.

"You're quite a wanted man, Jem. Did you know that?

Sharim Reis alone has offered fifty gold pieces for your head."

Well. I feel I have two choices. Deny my name, or brazen

it out. "Really? How very entertaining. Dare I ask why? I am
merely a sailor."

"Merely? No, I think not. First mate on the one ship that

always manages to elude our defenses. You have been

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responsible for the loss of over fourteen hundred Christian
slaves. I fear that makes the Reis rather unhappy."

"My Captain..."
"Is nearly in his dotage, as is well known, my dear."

Really, his complete command of my language is unnerving. I
might have expected fluent French, or perhaps Spanish, but
he sounds as though he attended one of England's oldest
schools. "Everyone knows it is your keen mind that plots the
Adrianna's course."

"I fear you have me at a disadvantage," I say, falling back

upon old habits, taking the tack of an educated man, myself.
Perhaps I can work something out, here.

"Do I? I apologize. I am Hakim Reis, to these people, at

least."

"You are not an Arab, then." Surely not. Not with those

eyes.

"No. And you are not simply a sailor. Now, what to do with

you?" His hand comes up to tilt my face this way and that,
and his thumb slips into my mouth in a most humiliating
manner, checking my teeth. "You surprise me, being so
young. I had expected to simply turn you over to Sharim
Reis, but I might have other uses for you."

"I should tell you that I make a terrible rower." The

temptation to bite the hand holding me all but overwhelms
me. I resist, attempting insouciance instead.

"What a terrible waste of your ... attributes that would be,

my dear." A man who does not share my proclivities might
mistake that look. For one such as I there is no mistaking it.
How very entertaining.

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"I make a very bad whore, as well," I say, inclining my

head. "Far too much stubborn in my blood."

A bright smile lights his face. "I do love a challenge. Yes, I

think I shall simply fail to tell Sharim Reis that you are here.
First you must bathe."

Hakim snaps his fingers, letting loose a stream of orders,

and the men holding me pick me up by the arms, dragging
me out of the room, just like that.

His eyes are as a physical touch upon my back, and as my

feet drag against the fine carpet beneath them, I wonder if I
would not be better off in a galleon. I fear Hakim will be a far
more attentive captor than the average whipping master.

Galleons and Gangplanks

by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

Chapter Two
Jem Nettles is something of a legend. He is far younger

than I supposed, and far more attractive.

Thanks to the sun and sea, his hair resembles straw, but

his eyes are a beautiful grass green. How well I remember
grass, for all that I have not seen it in nearly a score of years.
The heat of the streets of Algiers precludes it. The white
buildings of the city seem stark compared to my memories of
stone walls and misty mornings.

Sighing, I go back to my desk and sit, taking up my letter

to Sharim Reis and tossing it in the small brazier I keep
nearby. There is not a chance under heaven that I will send
Jem Nettles to the old man, and I know it.

No, I am bored, and he will entertain me.
Truly, his form is quite pleasing, even under all that grime.

He has the muscles of a working man without having the
pocked skin, bent limbs and poor teeth so often seen in
sailors. One must wonder how he escaped that fate. I am
certain I will find out.

Shifting in my seat, I press the heel of my hand against

the insistent hardness under my robes. Then I lift my hand
with a low curse. There will be time for that later. For now I
must find a way to tell Sharim Reis that Jem Nettles is not
available for that reward without actually lying.

Lying to Sharim Reis is a very dangerous proposition

indeed.

Once a pirate captain, hence the Reis, Sharim is a

Dutchman, with a temper worse than any Arab, and a heavy

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hand with capitol punishment. His real name is Henry
VanVook, and the fact that I know that keeps me somewhat
safe in the White City, with his grudging protection making
my life much more profitable.

Time to begin over with the letter.
My Dear Henry,
The Adrianna is in my men's possession, docked just up

the coast. The Captain was lost during the battle, I fear, and
Jem Nettles is still sought for your pleasure. It appears he is
no longer with his men. I have men scouring the city for any
missing members of the Adrianna's crew.

I will keep you abreast of any new discoveries.
Your servant,
Hakim Reis
Reading back over the letter, I nod. Suitably vague, with

no actual lies.

Sharim will accept it for the time being.
Time enough for me to decide what to do with the very

intriguing Jem Nettles.

* * * *

When I think to seek out my prisoner again it is late in the

evening, the day swept away conferring with my ship
captains. The Adrianna yields surprisingly little in the way of
booty, and I am lead to wonder where clever Jem has
squirreled away all of the riches he has liberated from the
Barbary coast.

It takes only moments to ring for a servant and tell them

to have Jem brought to my chambers. The instructions I leave

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by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

for his arrangement might have baffled my servants at one
time, but now they are all accustomed to my habits, any who
might have protested sold off to other nobles in the city. Or to
a ship's hold, depending upon their likeliness to discuss my
preferences.

Algiers is not the most prohibitive of cities at the worst of

times. At the best, it is positively accepting of all manner of
deviance.

When I arrive, two guards stand on either side of my

chamber door, arms crossed over broad chests. The sight
never fails to make me smile, which I hide with a nod and an
ostentatious sweep of my embroidered robes. Levity makes
them uncomfortable.

Ah. Jem. He appears almost radiant chained to my wall,

his dark arms and chest a sharp contrast to his pale belly,
hips and thighs. I do love the sight of a well-made, nude
man. No longer trying to hide my smile, I make my way to
the tray of fruit beside my favorite chaise.

Stretching out, I affect a lounging posture. "I trust you are

comfortable?"

"Comfort is relative, I suppose," He answers, his green

eyes bright in a flushed face. "Compared to a Portuguese
slave hold? Yes, indeed. I would prefer my own rooms, I must
admit."

His bravado and humor make him even more appealing,

though I imagine he does not know it.

"I apologize for your disappointment, but I hope you will

accept my kind offer and share mine."

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His belly shows ridges of muscle; his chest is broad and

well made. His cock is a good size, lying quiet against his
thighs. I could not ask for more. A twinge of excitement rolls
through me as I pop a date into my mouth.

"Well, I make an awful house guest, but it is up to you."
"It is," I agree, letting my voice harden. "Remember that.

Your fate rests squarely in my hands."

A small shudder moves through his body, perfectly obvious

when he is chained that way, arms spread wide, legs chained
together to give him a solid base. Lovely. His face and neck
flush a dark rose.

"I'm accustomed to being my own man," he says,

matching my tone, but really, he's the one in chains, isn't he?

"Now you are mine." A cup of wine sits next to the fruit,

and I pick it up, sipping at it, enjoying the fact that thanks to
this man's ship I can actually enjoy Spanish wine for a time.

"And what are you to do with me, then? Am I to dress you

and comb your hair?" Jem sneers. "I am no manservant."

Licking wine from my lower lip, I stare him down. "Be

careful that you do not become a eunuch. I could make things
much easier on myself by chopping off your balls." His parts
shrivel at the very thought, and I cannot help but laugh.
"There, you see? At least a portion of you feels that discretion
is the better part of valor."

"I am glad you amuse yourself, Hakim Reis. Maybe this

way you will not need me to do it for you."

Rising, I toss the cup to the floor and stalk over to him,

lifting his chin so I can peer directly into his eyes. "Oh, make
no mistake, Jem Nettles. You will serve to amuse me for

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some time to come. For now I am simply happy to have you
as a decoration. But do not mistake me. I am only weary
tonight. Not disinterested."

His eyes widen, the ring of gold around the green suddenly

very apparent. His spirit shows through in the way he jerks
his chin out of my grasp. "If you're tired you ought to find
your bed."

Laughing, I nod, pushing off my robes and letting them

pool at his feet. As if unable to stop himself, he stares at my
body, his eyes moving over me. There's heat there, both
anger and an unwilling admiration, and if he blushes any
brighter he will burst into flame.

"I believe I will," I say, presenting him with my back and

hearing his gasp. My scars often have that effect, and luckily
for me his sound gives my cock all the impetuous it needs to
go down. "I shall see you in the morning, Jem Nettles. Count
upon it."

As I walk away to my bed, I hear him murmur, "I cannot

wait."

Oh, yes. This will be entertaining indeed.

Galleons and Gangplanks

by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

Chapter Three
"What on earth have you gotten yourself into, Jem,

m'boy?" I mutter, struggling at the cuffs that hold my hands
firmly to the wall.

Earlier a guard came and unchained me, taking me and

feeding me some sort of fruity meat dish and allowing me to
visit the necessary, but then it was back to the bathing room,
then back to the wall. Sadly, my body was too stiff to make
good any sort of attack on the guard, but after sleeping
standing, in my chains, for the better part of the night, I am
ready to get out of Hakim Reis' luxurious chamber.

The way he looked at me ... Well, I cannot deny that

somewhere deep in my belly it caused a tumult. I suppose
there are worse ways to be held captive, but the threat to my
balls makes me less than pleased with the situation.

I can hear him snoring lightly, so it seems a good time to

try to break free. I may never get my ship back, but surely I
can find someone in the port who will take me back to Sicily,
or perhaps France.

If only I can get my bloody hands free.
The cuffs are attached to the plate in the wall with a chain

that appears more delicate than it is. Still, I ought to be able
to bend the link in the chain if I might only find the right
angle...

The first fingers of dawn are creeping across the floor

when I finally win my left hand free, and screaming relief
shoots through my shoulder as it is no longer held in such a
painful, awkward position. The remainder of the chain

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by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

attached the cuff makes a terrible noise when my arms drop,
and I hold my breath, listening for my captor's any
movement.

When none comes, I start work on the other wrist. Now

that I know precisely how to bend the chain it ought to be
easier to win free.

I want to crow with joy when my other hand drops to my

side, but I hold it in, a burst of air from my mouth the only
sound in the room. Now for the feet, and then out the window
I go.

Just as I am about to bend to my ankles, however, I am

stopped by the feel of cold steel against my throat.

Bloody, buggering fuck.
I never even heard him move. And yet it is Hakim standing

before me, his bright smile clearly visible in the low light. His
body is much paler than I remember from the night before,
but I confess that then I was looking at his other attributes.
And his terrible scars.

They almost make me admire him for surviving them.
"What a clever slave you are, Jem Nettles," he says,

pressing the sword against my skin. "I've not seen someone
who could get out of these chains."

"No? Then your former guests have been rather stupid."
"Mmm. I must say men are rather that way, don't you

think? Women are far more adept at stealth."

I want to say that he must be a woman, then, but that

might cost me parts that I prefer attached. So I only nod. "As
you say. So, what are we to do, then?"

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by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

"I could call the guards, I suppose. I think I prefer another

method, however. The sword moves away so quickly that I
have no chance to catch at it, as numb as I am. I teeter
somewhat, afraid for my balance, as he moves to the
opposite side of the room.

Unable to resist, I watch the way his body moves,

especially when he lights a lamp, the flickering shadows
lending him something of a glow. He is a well-made man.
There is no denying it.

Hakim returns with a heavy lock, the type that threads

through two pieces of chain and snaps together. "Hold out
your hands," he says, the sword still at the ready.

What am I to do with my feet hobbled like a donkey?
I hold out my hands, sighing heavily.
"You should have been an actor, Jem. Such drama. You

could have played any of the great heroines."

Bastard. "I am a bit large for that, I think. You are much

better suited to the delicate..."

"Do you think so?" The lock clicks into place, and my

hands are suddenly useless once more. He smiles, batting his
lashes like a maid. "I think you'll find me stronger than all
that. Hands up as far as you can put them."

When I would argue, he steps back and pushes the rapier

under my hands, lifting them. Sighing, I hold them where he
puts them, knowing that for now discretion will get me farther
than struggle.

Once I am compliant, he comes in to unlock my feet,

sending relief through me once again, as I can now move
them.

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100

"Come. I'll take you to the necessary."
"Will you feed me as well?" I ask, trying to delay whatever

it is he has planned for me.

"Soon enough. I think it will wait until after..." A glinting

smile has me tensing up all over, including the part of me
that should be very afraid instead. Really, he's the most
beautiful man. Somehow the scars I can again see on his
back do not detract. Instead they enhance his body.

Once I've cleaned up a bit and relieved myself, I feel much

more up to the task of resisting, so I turn on him, standing
firm. "Now what?"

"Now back to my chamber, if you please."
"And if I don't?"
"I don't care. You should be well aware of the rules, being

a pirate yourself." His eyes narrow, the blue as deep as any
ocean.

My muscles tense, my breath coming fast as I gather

myself to fight him. I should know better, for at these tiny
signs he springs forward, the rapier at my throat in the blink
of an eye.

"Now, Jem."
"If you insist." Slowly, carefully, I make my way back to

his chamber, his hand on the small of my back to guide me.
"Face down on the bed."

His bed is a massive thing, covered with beautiful fabrics

and plump pillows. Somehow it makes the whole situation all
the more obscene. With my hands before me, it's difficult to
stretch out, and I find I am touching myself quite
inappropriately once I assume the position he's asked for.

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101

God Almighty, that makes my skin jump, heat.
"What do you intend?" I ask, not wanting to know, but

unable to resist asking. The coverlet scratches my cheek with
heavy embroidery, the rest smooth as butter on bread.

"Why, to beat you for trying to escape, naturally."
For a horrible moment. I think he means to beat me with

the cat, the instrument that has obviously tasted the flesh of
his own back. I struggle nearly to my knees, but Hakim
pushes me down, and I feel the sting of his open hand on my
backside.

I jump, the blow surprising me, both the sting and the

surprising gentleness of the method putting me off balance.
The next blow seems less surprising, but just as sharp, his
leanness hiding hard strength. Still, it is no whip that finds my
skin, and oddly, I relax enough that the impact does not
really hurt. In fact, as the beating continues, it begins to
warm me, making me sweat as though I had eaten Spanish
food. Humiliating in the extreme, lying across his bed,
sweating under his hand, and even more so when my cock
begins to rise to his ministrations.

Surely it is the friction gained by my bound hands pressing

there that makes me shudder.

Will he never tire? Hakim continues with the ignominious

spanking until my backside is steaming, the muscles jumping
and twitching.

When he begins to speak, his voice is deep, rough, filled

with the same tumult that fills my balls.

"Will you bend to my will now, Jem? Will you stop trying to

escape me?"

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102

"I doubt that I would go that far." The attempt to make my

words light fails. I sound as though I have swallowed a frog,
my voice like gravel.

"Then I shall simply have to continue."
Another blow falls, then another. My body arches up,

trying to relieve the pressure on my cock, on my hands, and I
cry out, the sound one of utter frustration.

Immediately, Hakim stops, hands gentle on my back and

ribs as he turns me over.

"Are you well?" he asks, blue eyes boring down into mine.
My hands pop up like they have no connection to my mind,

landing against his chin. "Of course I am not well," I roar.
"You've chained me, beaten me, taunted me!"

Hakim falls back, one hand clutching his face, Arab curses

flowing from him. Then he's atop my struggling body, forcing
me back down into the soft bedding. My ass stings, the
embroidery rubbing at the sensitive flesh.

"Enough!" he shouts at me, hands on my shoulders, thighs

straddling my hips. "You think I have ill-treated you? Imagine
what Sharim Reis will do when I hand you over to him, you
fool!"

I still my struggles, breathing deeply, thinking for a

moment about what the man I have been stealing from for
three years might do to me. I had forgotten about that
somehow, feeling safe with Hakim, in some odd way. "I will
not apologize."

He stares at me, then laughs and shakes his head. "I do

not expect you to. I do hope you will not fight me so."

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"I make no promises." Amazing, how my cock is still hard.

His has softened from the stiff rod it was before, barely
glimpsed before I hit him. While I stare at it, however, it
grows to full strength again.

Smiling like a cat licking cream, Hakim wraps one hot hand

about my prick, licking his lips. "I can promise you I will do
you no harm, Jem. Only let me..."

When I find myself nodding my head, my breath caught in

my throat, I know I have truly fallen into a pirate's trap.

"Yes," I hear myself say. "Yes, please."

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Chapter Four
Jem tells me yes, and it makes my throbbing chin and

bruised chest worthwhile.

Even my stinging hand feels better, wrapped around his

incredibly hot skin. It's like the sun in Algiers, blazing against
the white city, 'tis so hot.

He stares up at me, eyes blazing a deep green, lips shiny

where he has licked them. Unable to resist, I bend to taste
those lips, pressing full length against him. His bound hands
pressing against mine, pushing our pricks together. Not since
my first fumblings in a tiny school in England have I felt such
instant need.

I rock against him, my breath coming in short gasps, the

beating I gave him, the one he returned, his sudden
compliance; all of it excites me beyond reason.

His cock rises against mine, wet at the tip, and I roll my

hips harder against Jem, sweat running on my skin,
completely out of control. My only consolation is that Jem is
right there with me, grunting and squirming, his eyes wide
and glazed with pleasure, not pain. His hands open and close
convulsively, and the tiny bit of scrape makes my hair stand
on end, my skin rising with gooseflesh.

We move together so easily, so quickly, and before I can

blink he's spending, crying out, his head falling back to show
me his sun-darkened throat and shoulders. Without thinking,
I bend down and bite as his collarbone, the low growl he
gives me sending me over the edge. My hips grind down
against his when I shoot my seed.

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The silence afterward is broken only by our harsh

breathing, and I finally pull back to stare at him. I wonder if I
am as wide-eyed and shocked as he appears.

"So. This mean you won't turn me over to Sharim Reis?"

he asks, his sudden grin making him look younger somehow.

"Not today, at any rate, no." Laughter bubbles up in my

chest, surprising me. I've had little to laugh at in my life. "Not
today."

* * * *

Three days later I am wishing I had sent him to Sharim

Reis the first day I had Jem Nettles in my sight.

His mood runs hot and cold. After our encounter in my

bed, I unlocked his wrists with the warning that he would see
the dungeon again should he even try to attack me. My
guards stand firm at the door, but he has made no move to
harm me. No, indeed, he has made no move toward me at
all.

I can tell that the fight is not gone out of him. No, instead

he bides his time, waiting for a chance to run. Sadly, that
would be the worst thing he could do. He would never make it
back to the Adrianna, for Sharim is a cautious man, and
would not believe for one moment that I was completely
truthful with him.

Jem sits on a low couch while I write at my desk, the

scratching of my quill the only sound in the room. The silence
grates at me, for despite my assurance to Jem that I would
find a use for him, I have lost my taste for the game we

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played a few short days before. I have never been good at
maintaining the mien of a desert sheik.

Just as I am about to go mad from the endless battle of

long silences, Jem clears his throat.

"So how did you come to be here? You're an Englishman,

same as me, yes?"

My head tilts, and I meet his eyes, letting nothing show, I

hope. It takes me several moments to decide how much to
tell him. "I was born there, yes. I suspect I took to the sea
the same way you did, impressed into service."

At his nod, I continue. "When I was a lad of oh, ten and

eight, our ship was taken by a Dutch pirate, working for the
Turks. I'll spare you the details in between, but when Sharim
Reis found me, he decided I had a keen mind. He gave me
work, eventually gave me my own ship, and finally, this villa."

Staring intently at me, Jem tilt his head. "Such a short

description of what must have been a full life."

"I suppose." Setting my quill aside, I stand and stretch

before going to find my tobacco box. "What of you? What is it
that has made Jem Nettles such a mythical figure?"

"My cock?" He says it so casually that I spend a few

moments registering what he's thrown out. Then I have to
laugh.

"It is indeed impressive," I agree. "But I doubt that you'd

get such a reputation as a tactician because of it."

"You don't think so?" Rolling to his side to stretch out, Jem

scratches his belly. "What do you intend to do with me," he
asks for the fiftieth time.

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My shoulders tighten, but I roll myself a small cheroot

before I answer, taking the time to light it. Smoke streams
out of my nose.

"I haven't the faintest idea. You were quite right to begin

with. You make a terrible whore. I imagine you would be just
as much trouble, should I put you in chains on one of my
boats. I suppose I ought to turn you over to Sharim Reis."

"Then why don't you?" He stares at me, his eyebrows

lowered. "Not that I want you to. I have heard tell of his
tortures. But if you are no longer enamored of my charms,
why keep me?"

"Oh, did I say that I did not still find your charm

considerable? I do. You make it difficult to approach the
subject, though, I admit. And every time I find myself near
your backside I have the urge to beat it."

His eyes go wide and his cheeks flush. "Indeed? Well, I can

think of far more pleasant things to do with it."

"Can you?" Well. What a surprising turn of events, I think.

"Have you reached the boredom stage of captivity?"

"Something like that." He stands, his nude body all but

gleaming, the bruises from his capture nearly faded
completely. Just as my handprint has faded from his buttocks.

"Come show me, then." Turning my back on him, I walk

slowly to the bedchamber, wondering if he will follow or if he
will run.

I have almost gained the dais the bed sits upon when his

arms steal about me, his hands working the fastenings of my
robes. "What is it about you?" he asks me. "I should be trying
to get away. All I wish is to become closer."

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His breath brushes my ear, my nape, making goose flesh

rise on my skin. "I wonder the same about you."

"We shall wonder together, then."
My robes fall to the floor, and he pushes me facedown on

the bed, his hands sliding from my shoulders to my buttocks,
fingers working hard at the muscles there. The touches have
me moaning in no time, arching up to meet him, and I can
hear him laugh.

"So responsive. I wonder what you would do if I beat you

like you did me."

My whole body tenses, and I struggle out from under him,

fighting wildly. He lands hard on the floor beside the bed, my
crazed bucking having thrown him off, and he stares at me
from that vantage point while I press my back to the large
wooden headboard.

Chest rising and falling rapidly, I stare back, my hands

shaking where they grip the heavy coverlet.

For long moments the only sound we hear is the tinkle of

the small fountain in my antechamber. Then he nods at me,
once, sharply. "I am sorry, Hakim. I wasn't thinking. Your
back..."

I smile tightly. "Yes. I'm sure you can understand why I

might object to any sort of beating."

"Yet we both found what you did to me ... pleasurable." He

seems loath to admit it, but he does, and I must applaud his
courage.

"There was no malice in it. And you have not my scars."
"Tell me how you got them?"

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"No." The word falls flat between us, and I crawl off the

bed, reaching for my robes, the desire completely faded.

Jem grasps my hand, just at the wrist, halting my

movement as he stands. "You need not tell me. I won't make
such a mistake again."

Unsure whether he means asking about my scars or

threatening to beat me, I simply nod. "I do not blame you."

"Good. Then come and kiss me." He pulled me to him, skin

to skin, and takes my mouth with a ferocity I do not expect.
His lips press mine back against my teeth, his hands sliding
around to cup my buttocks, and I gasp against him. My leg
comes up to wrap around his hip, the tiny hairs on the inside
of my thigh pulling and rasping.

The kiss transports me, making my blood run hot, and I let

my arms wind around Jem's neck, not thinking about how I
am supposed to be the captor to his captive. No, indeed, all I
can do is react to his touch.

Lifting and turning, Jem tosses me on the bed, coming

down atop me, green eyes blazing. "I hope you react better
to buggering than you do beating."

Laughing, I nod, reaching for him. "I do. Come do your

worst, Mister Nettles."

"Only the best for you, Hakim Reis," he counters, smiling

now, the hard edges of his face sliding into a sun-crinkled
grin.

I don't understand what it is between us, but it is

undeniable.

He lifts and spreads my legs, pushing my knees back

against my chest, stretching my muscles in ways they have

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been little used for a long while. Then he strokes between
them, fingers circling my cock, my balls, thumb pressing
against my cleft.

"Oil, Hakim."
"In the brass box."
"Ah. Yes." The box yields the vial I know is sweet oil, and

he opens it, breathing in the scent. "Very nice, Hakim. I
should make you keep me. You have far better resources
than I do."

"You live at sea..." I have not live shipboard in so long that

I cannot remember not having the small luxuries, such as oil
and lemon candy and good food.

"I do." Jem grinned. "Until I get my ship back, however,

you can provide me with the finer things..."

"Naturally." For now I will ignore the idea that he wants to

leave more than he wishes to stay. Reaching, I pull my legs
back father, taunting him, "Is this one of those?"

His eyes darken at least two shades. "God, yes."
Without further ado, he wets his fingers with the oil,

setting the vial aside in favor of pressing his fingers to the
entrance of my body, wetting me well. When I tensed, he
stroked my belly with his other hand, soothing me.

"I won't hurt you, Hakim" he said, petting me. Gentling me

like a fractious pony.

"Hunter."
Drawing back, he stares at me, his fingers stilling.

"Pardon?"

"My name. It's Hunter."
A smile breaks over his face. "It suits you."

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"Thank you." What a stupid thing to do. Names have

power, after all, and now he has half of mine.

"Breathe, Hunter," he says, and despite feeling a fool, it

sounds good to hear someone say it after all these years.

I breathe deeply, letting him in, relaxing my muscles. Two

of his fingers slide right into me, and my body bows up, at
once fighting and accepting the invasion. The burn races
through me, sending my head spinning, sending the wind
right out of my lungs.

"So tight. My God, you're tight."
"A long ... time." My hips roll, letting him in more and

more, my cock rising again from where it had softened.

"I can tell." Those surprisingly white teeth flashed in

another smile. "Benefits of being the captain, eh?"

Yes, he ought to know that as well as I. I want to say

something clever, but the tips of his fingers find the spot
inside me that send sparks shooting before my eyes, and all I
can do is open myself wider, moaning and tossing my head.

Jem pushes a third finger in, his other hand leaving my

skin to take up more oil and work it into his prick. I can
barely see the motions, but I am transfixed by them
nonetheless, watching, craning my neck to see. He has a
beautiful prick.

"You ready for me, Hunter?"
Hearing my real name once more has me jerking back and

forth on his fingers, nodding frantically. No one has had me
thus since Henry, Sharim Reis, the Dutch captain of the
Barbary coast, and that was given only out of duty.

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This I give freely, though I don't know why he affects me

so.

Pulling his fingers free, Jem replaces them with his prick,

pressing the heavy head against me, then pushing in a scant
inch or so.

My legs move automatically to wrap around his waist,

pulling him in deeper, making him move. I cannot stand to be
still any longer.

"Hunter..." He moans it, my name coming off his lips as

easily as if he's known me his whole life. Grabbing my hips,
he begins to move in and out, his cock stretching me almost
unbearably. Almost.

"Jem. More."
"Yes. More." He gives me his all, really, hips pumping his

prick into me, one hand sliding to cup my sacs and push the
up against the base of my cock.

Crying out, I rock with him, needing him beyond reason. I

reach down with him, pumping at my cock, pushing myself
down on him as hard as I can. God in heaven, I cannot
remember a time when this act has given me such pleasure.

"Hunter. I need you to ... Please. For me."
That is all it takes for me to spend, my body twisting

against the pressure of his cock inside me, my seed coating
my hand and his.

Jem's eyes open wide, the ring of gold around all but

swallowing the green. Then he grunts and I can feel him
inside me, wet and hot and so deep I know I will feel him for
a long time to come.

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He leans down against me, his chin resting on my

shoulder, and his breath stirs my hair. "I like your name,
Hunter."

"Good." I stroke his straw-like hair, laughing as it stands

on end. "I like the way you say it."

This is perhaps the biggest mistake I have ever made,

allowing him to have me. I could easily come to crave him.
And I know he will run the first chance he gets. Unlike me, he
still has hope.

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Chapter Five
Hakim ... Hunter. He's sleeping deeply, chest rising and

falling, the lines on his face smoothed out some. It has been
like this every night since that first, when I pushed myself
into him and made him feel me. Made him, for all intents and
purposes, mine.

He fascinates me.
I should try to leave now, stealing out while the sun is

hidden by the night. Somehow, though, I cannot make myself
leave.

The dangers of Sharim Reis do not deter me overmuch.

The man wants my head, I have no doubt, but I feel confident
I can elude him, even in the White City. What I do not feel
confident about is my ability to leave Hunter.

Somehow knowing his real name makes things more

difficult.

It is ridiculous, I know. He holds me prisoner. And yet in

no more than a fortnight, he has captured me in an entirely
different way.

A pounding on the door has him sitting straight up in the

bed, rolling to find the rapier he keeps on the floor beside.

When I start to speak, he claps a hand over my mouth.

"No," he whispers. "Not until I know who it is. My guards
would never do such. Come."

He takes me to the huge clothing press along the

bedchamber wall, pushing through the robes there to show
me a false back. "The passage will lead you out if need be.

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But you can stay back in the corridor for some time. I'll call
for you when it's safe."

I know I must be staring stupidly, but his urgency simply

takes me utterly by surprise. We've had not so much as a
whimper from Sharim Reis in two weeks. What makes Hunter
think there is danger now?

Still, I follow his orders, knowing that I might now escape,

even if I don't wish to.

The door all but bends as a new volley of knocks sound,

heavy hands hitting the panels. As I shimmy back into the
corridor behind the press and close the panel behind me, I
can hear him call out that he's coming, please do not break
down his door.

After that I can hear little, though a few loud bangs and

bumps make their way to me after a too long silence. I hold
m breath, hoping against hope that Hunter will come to me,
tell me all is well.

When my feet are numb and my breath is coming light and

fast from the lack of air, I push myself to the panel at the
back of the clothing press and remove the panel, creeping to
open one door a tiny crack to see what might be out in
Hunter's chamber.

There is no sign of him at all, and the guard is not wearing

Hunter's ... or rather Hakim Reis' colors. He stands near the
door to the bedchamber, arms crossed, and I must stifle my
gasp so as not to alert him to my presence.

Two of Hakim's guards lay on the floor, still and bleeding.
Damn it all.
Hakim has been taken.

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I make my way back into the corridor, pulling the little

panel safely closed, and head down into the bowels of the big
villa, hoping the passage will take me someplace where I can
escape into the city.

I have a feeling I know who has taken Hakim Reis

prisoner. The only problem with going to retrieve him will be
that the man who holds him surely wants my head more than
Hakim's.

* * * *

The sun is just coming up over the whitewashed city when

I escape from the damnable passage that narrows down to a
mere crawlspace by the time I reach the end.

I check carefully for posted guards before leaving,

wrinkling my nose at the smell emanating from my hastily
donned robes. Luckily, Hunter is not so much shorter than I,
so my bare feet barely show. I've covered my head and face
with some sort of scarf Hunter had, so my blond hair does not
show.

The urge to make my way to the Adrianna tugs at me, but

that way lies danger, so I make my way to the marketplace
instead, hoping to pinch something to ease my growling belly.
The souk is only just beginning to wake, merchants setting up
their wares, fruit and vegetables and silk fabrics.

The wait for the streets to fill enough to go unnoticed

makes me almost weak, the sun beating down on my covered
head. I know I must find something to sustain me, so I go to
a shadowy alley where a tinkling fountain at least yields me a
drink of water.

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When I return to the market, there are men dressed in the

same livery at the guard I saw at Hakim ... Hunter's. They
mill about, grabbing shoulders and peering into faces.
Damnation. I had hoped to have more time.

Grabbing a handful of dates from a merchant who is

arguing loudly with a fat matron, I speed away down an alley,
the sun blinding me even there. The waterfront will afford me
more anonymity, even as it puts me in more danger.

Steps sound behind me, and I speed my own feet, trying

to appear relaxed and yet purposeful. If I do not show that I
am fearful of getting caught, they will have no reason to
suspect, or so my logic tells me.

The smell of spices and baking bread make my mouth

water, and I duck into a small tent souk, cutting through it to
get my bearings, see which way will take me to the sea. Oh,
the scent is heavenly, and my mouth fair waters.

A hard hand falls upon my arm, and I jump, almost crying

out, stopped only by the other hand, which claps over my
mouth.

"Jem!" my assailant hisses in my ear. "Thank God.

Thought ye was dead."

My Bo 'sun. Alan Rimmaud. I collapse against him,

nodding, and he finally releases my mouth. "Alan! I'm half-
starved. Have you any money?"

"Aye, and a room as well. Come on, Cap'n."
Contrary to what I told Hunter to begin with, I really have

acted as the Captain of the Adrianna for nearly two years.
This might not be the best place to announce the fact,
however.

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"Jeremiah, if you please, Alan. I shall remember to answer

to it, but it is far less likely to get me captured."

"Yes, Sir. Er ... Jeremiah."
He leads me through a warren of backstreets, back to the

poorest section of the city, where rats outnumber the
humans. Still, I don't fear so much for myself now, knowing
that the men at the market will not be looking for me here.

"Any of the other men with you, Alan?"
"Yes, S ... Yes. A few of the lads escaped. Are we taking

the Adrianna back, then?"

I nod, clapping him on the back. "We are. There's

something I'm going to have to retrieve first. I'll need your
help."

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Chapter Six
When I wake, I am much in the same position I once put

Jem in. I hang from a wall, but the room is no dungeon. No,
indeed, it is opulent beyond anything I might own. It's a room
I know well, and my heart sinks even as my head pounds
from the beating it took.

Sharim Reis sits at his desk, writing accounts, much as I

did with Jem. Waiting with the uncanny patience he has for
me to wake. The temptation to close my eyes and pretend to
remain unconscious is strong, but instead I clear my throat.

His light brown head lifts, his gray eyes locking on mine.
"Ah, my dear Hakim. So good of you to join me."
"So good of you to invite me," I reply, my voice sounding

like I've been chewing broken clay. "I hope you intend to
offer me refreshments."

"That depends upon you." He rises, coming to stand before

me, his European clothes completely at odds with the eastern
tenor of his décor. Deep rugs, brass bound chests, and
brightly colored birds in cages mix with the tinkling fountains
to create a picture utterly incongruous with my position.
"Where is he?"

"Who?"
A deep scowl mars his smooth features. "You know very

well who, brat. Where is Jem Nettles? And why would you put
yourself in danger of losing my good graces for the
scoundrel?"

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A fine question, one I am not sure I could answer if I had

the inclination. All I know is that I could not then and will not
now give Jem over to him.

"I haven't the faintest idea where he is," I say, watching

storms gather in Sharim's eyes.

"He was with you. When my men came. I know he was,

my dear." Fingers, long and thin and so talented with a lash,
grip my chin. "Tell me."

"I cannot. He's bound to be at sea by now. He knows you

want his head, Henry."

A ringing slap rocks my head to the side. "Sharim Reis, to

you, brat! I have put years of work and trust into you. And
this is how you repay me?"

Rage builds in my gut, roiling up to spew out of my mouth.

"You whipped me until my back had not enough flesh left on
it to sew together. Do you truly expect loyalty for that?"

"You ungrateful little bastard." The words come out cold,

deadly. "I thought I had beaten the fight right out of you. I
suppose I was wrong. Allow me to rectify that error."

Frozen nausea replaces the rage, making me shiver, even

in the heat of the day. "Do what you will, Henry. I am
through playing your devoted lapdog." It's as though I have
been living in a stupor all these years, and something has
jerked me sideways, right out of the trance.

Whatever he does to me, I will not go back to being his

obedient servant.

"My lapdog. You know what they do to sick dogs, don't

you, my dear?" He moves close again, teeth bared. "I'll gut
you and feed you to the fish."

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"At least then I'll be back at sea, hmm?" My belly sucks in

at the very thought, but something in my mind has either
broken or healed, because the fear is not as overwhelming as
my pride in resisting his demands.

Stiff as a board, lips set in a hard line, Sharim goes to ring

the bell next to his desk, waiting with crossed arms until a
guard arrives. "Take him away. Put him in one of the store
rooms until I am prepared to administer his punishment."

The guard unhooks my hands and my knees buckle, the

position having strained my whole body. Pulled up and
dumped like a sack of grain over his shoulder, I am removed
from Sharim's sight, my last vision of him bearing an
expression more like regret than anger.

Too bad it will not cause him to be more lenient with me.

* * * *

Sleep comes fitfully throughout the hottest part of the day,

the stifling storeroom making me sweat like a lathered
Moroccan Barb horse.

I know Sharim Reis is still looking for Jem, hoping to

punish us together. I know the way Henry's mind works. He
may be from a more civilized corner of the world than Algiers,
but he is far more vicious than any Arab I know. Indeed, the
men of Algiers have a fine code of honor, which is why they
hire European captains to do their privateering.

The intense heat finally cools, and I come entirely awake,

knowing that Sharim will have conserved his strength all day,
and will make any move he intends to make now.

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Sure enough, the door to my little prison opens, and a

guard motions for me to stand. With my hands tied on front
of me, it takes me long moments to teeter to my feet, so
much so that he becomes impatient with me and strides over
to yank me to my feet.

I have not the strength to fight him, and I curse myself for

not escaping to the sea long ago. I was so much stronger
then, when I sailed with the privateer Henry captured and
destroyed.

The halls are covered in beautiful carpets, which saves my

bare toes from a terrible scraping, and the thought makes me
laugh. My back will certainly not be saved. Sharim will surely
beat me to death this time.

My journey ends in the great courtyard at the center of

Sharim's villa. A whipping post is set just to one side of the
great marble and glass fountain he is so proud of, and my
blood runs cold even as I try to buck up and face it with some
stoicism.

"Ah, the guest of honor! Gentlemen, I give you Hakim

Reis. I saved him from obscurity as a lad, and now I shall
send him back there. If he survives the beating, I will let you
bid on his carcass for use as a rower."

Well, at least I do not have to guess at his intentions.
"Come, Hakim. The entertainment is about to begin."
The guard drags me to the post, and the sea of faces

about me becomes more clear. I know many of these men.
Dutch, Spanish, Portuguese. All of them Barbary privateers,
backers or merchants. At least most of my adopted
countrymen have declined the invitation.

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The guard attaches me to the whipping post and tears off

my battered robes, leaving me bare and exposed, my scars
making some of the assembled men gasp. Yes, and if I
survive this, they will be doubled, I think.

Sharim snaps his fingers, a servant running to him to wrap

him in a robe of deepest black, so it will not show the blood,
one supposes. Then the cat is handed over, the sound as
Sharim snaps it through the air making me gag.

I remember this so well, even though it has been nearly

twenty years since I last felt it. The stillness of the crowd, the
heat as they press close enough to see, the whistle of the
testing strokes Sharim gives the whip. I might as well be back
on the Maiden Brianne, the ship rocking under me, boards
creaking.

It's cool stone beneath my feet, however. This time the

ground stays still, and I am the one swaying.

Finally, Sharim seems finished with his practice, and I see

him out of the corner of my eye, coming close, close enough
that his breath falls on my ear. "You still have a chance, my
dear. Tell me where he is."

My skin crawls when he traces a line down my neck, then

down my back, where I can barely feel it, as if he's touching
me with a feather. "I cannot. If I could, I would not."

"Then you shall pay for your arrogance now." He steps

back, the air cool where he moves it across my back. There's
a moment of complete stillness, as if everyone holds their
breath.

A sharp crack is the only warning I have before he paints

lines of screaming agony on my back with the cat.

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"I fear I might have gotten my invitation to the party a bit

too late!"

The entire assembled party turns at the booming voice,

including Sharim, leaving me shaking and twitching, my arms
straining to get away.

"I do hope I'm in time to join in, though."
Jem. Oh, by God, it's Jem. Why? How did he get in without

... What is he doing here?

"Mister Nettles! What a surprise to see you. You're just in

time, in fact. I was just starting." Sharim sounds nonplussed.
It makes me laugh, right out loud, and he turns on me, lifting
my head by my hair. "This does not save your hide, brat."

"Ah, but it does. I'm offering mine for his. Since your men

could not catch me, though, I was forced to come on my
own." Evil, ridiculous man. How I adore him; it does not
matter how short our time together. He is something special.

"I am not sure I want to trade," Sharim said. "When I can

have you both."

"Ah, but that rather violates what little honor you have

left, don't you think? Why not ask your assembled mates,
here?"

Bless him, Jem knows exactly what to do, the pirate. Even

this motley crew of thieves cannot argue with such an offer.
Even pirates have a certain code of ethics.

A low murmur sounds, gaining strength, until finally the

little crowd is buzzing like angry bees.

"Enough!" Sharim growls, quieting the men immediately.

"Cut him down."

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The guards release me, then back away, leaving me to

slump to the floor. Jem moves toward me, but a drawn rapier
stops him in his tracks.

"Take them both away," Sharim says, all of his fury plain

in his voice. "Lock them up. I shall deal with them later. After
I have conferred with my captains."

He strides to me as a guard grabs Jem's arms, holding him

when he tries to struggle. One booted foot slides under my
chin, lifting me off the stones. "Do not think you have
escaped your fate, brat. I'll make sure of it."

The guard lifts me, dragging me back the way I came. I

can hear the men shouting at Sharim, obscenities about both
me and Jem.

I have no doubt he means to kill us both. It will simply be

a matter of when.

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Chapter Seven
When they toss me into the stifling little storeroom, I

assume that all of my planning is for naught, as I do not
immediately see Hunter. A moan comes from the corner,
though, and I realize he's there with me.

Right there where I can touch him.
"Hunter. Are you well?"
A chuckle floats to me, harsh, but truly amused. "I think

not entirely, but I shall make do."

"Let me see your back." I have nothing with me but my

robes, knowing that Sharim would not allow me to keep any
weapons I might have brought. I have the headdress I took
from Hunter's clothing press, though, and that will do to bind
any wounds he might have.

He crawls to me, reaching out, and I pull him too me,

letting his weight settle against my body.

"Why did you come here?" he asks, staring at me with

those wondrous blue eyes.

"To save you, naturally. I felt it was the least I could do

after you saved me from Sharim in the first place."

"And now we are both caught. Are you mad?"
"If I am, there is method to it. Turn about, please."
His back is not nearly so bad as I feared. One set of stripes

mars the skin already scarred by just such a whip, but the
lines have already stopped bleeding. The flinch I feel under
my fingers is almost perfunctory, and I clean the wounds
easily.

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"Thank you," he says grudgingly, reaching up to stroke my

bristly cheek. "It could have been much worse."

"Indeed. And it could be much worse than it is now. My

men are being liberated from your villa as we speak. Some of
them will retake the Adrianna, and the rest will come for us."
I had a feeling that Hunter's men, or Hakim's, however they
liked to call it, would come with mine to save their master.
They seemed very loyal to him.

"Do you really believe they will be able to free us?" His

eyes tell me how foolish I am when he turns back to me.
"This is the villa of Sharim Reis!"

"And I walked directly through the front portal. You might

have some faith in me, Hakim."

"My name is Hunter." He tries to move away, but I hold

him, pulling him to me again to kiss his mouth. His arms
come up around my neck, and he gasps, but he will not let
me pull away, holding me close so the kiss might go on and
on.

"Hunter..." There. I've given him his name between kisses,

and his smile shapes my mouth into an answering one. It's
ridiculous, to think of loving him now, when we should be
preparing for our escape, but I cannot help myself.

My hands slide down his sides, careful to avoid his back, to

cup his ass, which is unmarred. Thank God. Squeezing elicits
a fine gasp from him, and he pushes me down, my back
hitting the floor with a thump. Laughing, I yank him down on
top of me, but he struggles away, plucking at my loose robes.

"I want to see you, Jem. We need this. In case..."

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"No, none of that. My men will come for us. But I would

like for you to touch me..." My robes slide right off and then
he's atop me again, so familiar and yet so new. We've known
each other such a short time. How can I explain how I feel
about him?

"Touching. Yes." He smiles, his blue eyes simply twinkling,

and leans down to kiss me before scooting back to run his
hands over my chest, fingers plucking at my nipples.

In no time he has me arching, writhing, pushing at his

hands while I try to get them where I want them. Still, he
teases me, fingers sliding down my belly, following the trail of
hair that leads down to my cock. By the time he actually
touches me there, the very tips of his fingers tracing me, I
am ready to explode like a cannon. Grunting, I push up,
trying to get more of his hand, trying to get him to grasp me
fully.

Finally he does, and I grunt, hips pumping up and up, my

balls so tight I fear for their strangulation.

"Hunter, please."
His eyes blaze down at me. "Yes. Yes, love. I need to

see..."

Oh. My whole body shakes, seed falling from me in great

spurts, sliding along my bellies and thighs.

"Beautiful..."
"Mmm." I would love to say that I can speak beyond that,

but I am without words, my body still thrumming with the
aftershocks.

Hunter moves against me, pressing against my thigh over

and over, his prick hot as a brand. When I can move again, I

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wiggle out from beneath him, pressing him back. He cannot
lie on the floor as I have, but he can lean back and spread his
pretty thighs for me, his cock dark and bobbing before him.

Kneeling between his legs, I bend down to take his prick

into my mouth, no teasing on my part at all. I might need this
more than he does, his flavor bursting through me. Hot, salty,
slightly bitter, he's all I could wish for.

His hips roll, his hands find my hair and sink deep, and he

growls for me like an animal. The rhythm he finds pushes him
in and out of my mouth hard and deep, staccato, making me
breathe deep to keep from choking. My hand cups his balls,
rolling the sacs, pushing him higher and higher. Hunter
groans, the sound sweet to my ears, and his seed fills my
mouth suddenly, making me swallow convulsively to keep it
all in.

I am not willing to lose a drop.
"Oh. Jem."
"Yes, love." Resting my chin on his hip, I smile up at him.

"Better?"

"Indeed. Come up here."
Crawling up his body, I let him wrap around me and take a

kiss, rolling to my back so he may snuggle atop me, saving
his back.

His back.
"He did this to you, didn't he?" I ask, touching the very top

scar.

"Of course he did. You saw it."
"No. I mean the first time."

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Hunter sighs and nods, his cheek scraping against my

shoulder. "Yes. I was only a lad; he decided to mold me in his
own image. I've had a good life here, I suppose."

"Then why in God's name did you hide me from him? You

could have simply turned me in."

"Why did you come for me?"
How neatly he turns it about on me. "Why do you think? I

am mad for you."

What else can I say? It is only the truth.
Despite our rather dire situation, Hunter laughs aloud,

kissing me hard enough to sting. "Well, there you have your
answer. You lit a fire in me the likes of which I have not felt in
my whole life. I had to keep you for myself."

My face stretches in a smile, my whole body tingling with

pleasure. I kiss him back. Hard. "We should rest, love. My
men will come soon, but not so soon that Sharim will be
ready for them. We will need our strength."

"Yes. And I will need clothing."
"Hmm. I've a mind to keep you nude," I say, sliding my

hands along his skin.

"Mmm. Well, you might lose me to slavers in the souk."
"True. We'll find you a blanket, at the least."
Hunter bats his lashes at me. "How chivalrous."
"I do try." Resisting popping his bottom, for I know how he

reacts to being beaten, I snuggle against him. "Sleep, love.
We'll be out soon enough."

Deciding to trust, he relaxes atop me, nodding. "I hope

you're right, Jem. I certainly do."

* * * *

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Night turns into day and I begin to despair of my men

finding us.

The guards bring us water at sunrise, which we fall to

greedily. Apparently Sharim wants us to be aware enough to
fear and dread our punishment. A bowl of flatbreads come
perhaps an hour later, and we eat those slowly, both of us
wishing to avoid a reluctant stomach.

"So, do your men plan to let us rot, then?" Hunter asks for

perhaps the third time since the bread came, making my
hands clench and my teeth grind.

"No," I reply, breathing through my nose. "They are simply

waiting for the best time. I am sure they have a plan."

"Or they have made a good job of liberating the Adrianna

and are on their way out to sea even now."

"Bastard. They'll be here."
No sooner have I said it than the door to our little prison

opens, yet another guard standing there, motioning for us to
get up.

Hunter groans, rolling his eyes at me as if to say, "See,

they've waited too long."

What he doesn't notice is how tall our guard is. Or how

blue his eyes are. Alan. I knew he would come through.

Grunting, he tosses a robe at Hunter, motioning again for

us to rise. When Hunter moves to protest, I put a hand on his
arm, shaking my head. Realization dawns in his eyes, and he
nods, rising and dressing in the simple white robes, quickly
and quietly. The less attention we draw the better.

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The heat of the day nearly knocks me down when we turn

into the main corridor of Sharim's villa, the long, narrow
windows letting in so much light that my eyes dazzle. Hunter
grunts as he slams into my back

Hissing, I turn halfway and grab him, keeping him from

falling. We need to be quiet, and my eyes tell him so, I'm
sure. Hunter bares his teeth at me, reminding me whose fault
the collision was, and I start to smile.

Heavens, I love his face.
Alan clears his throat, making us both jump, and we're off

again,

We clear the house, somehow without detection, but the

moment our feet touch the baked brick streets, a shout goes
up, one of Sharim's guards pointing and waving his arms.

"Time to run, lads!" Alan shouts, legs starting to churn as

he pelts away, heading for the heart of the city instead of
toward the circle of the sea.

For a moment I stand there, torn between following and

making a run for the Adrianna. Then Hunter grabs my arm.

"You trusted him to come. Trust him enough to follow."
Nodding, I whirl and run after Alan, pulling Hunter with

me. He keeps up, despite the heat of the sun and his slight
injuries. Alan is barely in view when we begin our desperate
run, but soon enough we catch him, his bigger, heavier body
not as able as mine or Hunter's.

When we reach the souk we stop, blending with the crowd,

and to my amazement, my men are there, surrounding us
without being obvious, leading us along. Alan disappears, but

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I am not concerned. He will remove Sharim Reis livery and
join us at the ship.

Good man.
The men lead us from one end of the city to another, and

we finally make a circuitous route to my ship. There she is.
The Adrianna Gayle. She looks little worse for wear. In fact, I
may have to send Sharim Reis a note of thanks for repairing
her for me after our capture. No doubt he meant to keep her
for his own

Sweet girl, somewhat larger than a carrack, smaller than a

galleon, she can run on wind or row, and she can run fast.

"Is she safe, Alan?" I ask when Alan appears beside me in

our hiding place between two loads of cargo.

"Safe as it will ever be, I suppose. We wait until night, the

Reis will surely come before then..." Alan's eyebrows gyrated,
making me laugh, and Hunter roll his eyes.

"Good Gracious, if this is how you captain, it is no wonder

you got caught."

"Do not make me hurt you, Hakim."
I've learned quickly that calling him Hakim now that I

know his true name makes him furious, and he pinches me
viciously on the leg.

"Well, are we standing about or taking our ship back?" I

ask, and Alan claps me on the shoulder.

"I say we take her back."
"Then let us go and do it."
One by one, the men trickle out to the docks, casually

making their way to the Adrianna. They come in from all
different directions, and I watch, unable to believe that

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Sharim Reis has nothing planned, even if the men he had
aboard have been taken captive.

"Now?" Hunter asks, and I shake my head, motioning for

Alan to go next.

"We wait. Alan will give us the all clear."
Together we watch Alan gain the gangplank, and he

disappears on deck. The wait seems endless, sweat trickling
down my neck, down my spine. The sun bakes us, and soon
Hunter is panting next to me, shifting restlessly.

"Soon, love."
"My back itches." A rough laugh follows that. "I suppose I

should be amazed that I can feel it and be glad."

"No. Never be glad that he hurt you. I swear, Hunter. If I

see him again, I will kill him."

"And have another rise to take his place?" Those blue eyes

cut to mine, amused and fond. "At least I know his methods.
His thoughts."

I want to argue, but it is all true enough. There must be a

way to use that to our advantage.

The signal finally comes from Alan, one of the crew

casually leaving the ship and passing by us, nodding once. I
tap Hunter on the shoulder and we're off, covering our heads
and making way to the Adrianna.

Somehow I know that Sharim Reis will not let us go this

easily.

But if I have my ship, I feel more than equal to whatever

he throws our way.

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Chapter Eight
The ship gleams. I am sure it hasn't been this clean in

years, perhaps since its first voyage. Henry is nothing, if not
thorough.

We've decided to wait to sail until after dark. A sense of

heavy unease hangs over us, as dark as the storm clouds that
are moving in on the afternoon wind. Jem has inspected the
ship, has checked every board and every bit of hold to make
sure none of Sharim's men remain.

The men have all signed for the voyage, even if we do not

know where we are headed.

I fear I am the only one uncertain.
How many years has it been since I have been at sea? And

what is my place here where I am not the captain? Jem is
clearly that, the men answering to him with perfect respect,
jumping to his order.

Leaning against the rail, I stare down at the docks,

expecting Sharim Reis to pop up at any moment.

"You're looking most thoughtful, love," Jem says quietly,

coming to stand at my side. "What may I do to help you pass
the time until we launch?"

"I should go back," I say, not daring to look at him. "I

have no place here. There cannot be two captains, Jem."

"No!" His denial is instant, his hands landing hard on my

arms to pull me about. "No, you will not go back. I shall take
you wherever you want to go, outfit you with a ship fit for a
king. But you will not go back."

"So you would have me gone..."

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"What is wrong with you?" He shakes me, making my head

whip back and forth. "Why are you doing this?"

The silence after he shouts at me rings across the water.

Jem turns to see the crew stopped working, staring at us.
"What are you all on about? Back to work! We cast off at
dusk!" Jem hollers, dragging me up the creaky steps to the
captain's cabin, slamming the door behind us.

"Well. Your predecessor was not much on decoration," is

all I can think to say. My head throbs.

"You say you save me because you're mad for me, but

now you wish to leave me?" Jem moves right up against me,
his hands falling on my hips. "Why?"

"Because it's a fool's idea, both of us on this ship, trying to

believe we won't slit each other's throats."

"We won't." His green eyes blaze down at me. "I know we

won't. You're not Hakim any longer. You're Hunter."

"Prove it to me," I whisper, hands coming up to clutch at

him. "Please."

"Yes." Jem kisses me like he cannot resist a moment

longer, his mouth smashing down upon mine. He pushes me
back against the door, lifting me against him, his legs
between mine. Impossibly hard already, I hump against him,
my hips rocking as much as they can. Moaning, Jem licks at
my lips before pulling back to stare into my eyes once more.

"Not leaving me," he says, pulling me up harder, closer, so

that my legs try to wrap around him.

"Too much cloth." It comes out as a growl. I cannot help it.

I need him against me, reminding me why I gave up what
little comfort I had.

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"Indeed." Smiling wildly, he turns, lifting me, and we

tumble to the bunk bolted to the wall, both of us struggling
with our loose robes, finally getting skin to skin.

Sinful. Beautiful. Everything I could want.
My hands shape his chest, my thumbs rubbing his nipples,

scraping across them to make them hard.

As hard as I am, I hope. My cock aches, begging for his

touch, rubbing against him furiously.

"More." Jem rolls atop me, grinding down against me, his

prick a brand against my hip. A tiny shift has our cocks
rubbing together, my hand wrapping around both of us,
stroking.

"Yes. More, love."
Jem gives me more, rocking against me, loving me with

his mouth and his hands. Every touch shows me how much
he wants me with him. And I want to stay with him. I do. I
simply have so many doubts...

"Stop. Stop worrying. I need you here with me." Jem

kisses me harder, my lips stinging under the pressure, and oh
... Oh, yes. I'm immediately there with him, everything else
flying away.

His hand joins mine between us, pulling at us both, and I

cry out, unable to stop myself, no matter who hears. Jem
smiles, the look as much pirate as any I have ever seen, and
he pushes harder against me, grunting, daring me not to
spend.

Spend I do, seed falling from me like a hard rain, the scent

sudden and deep and rich. Soon enough it doubles again, Jem

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arriving just in time to join me, his glad yell echoing in the
tiny cabin.

"Stay with me, Hunter. Whatever comes." Voice

breathless, hands still clutching me to him, Jem turns his
head and stares into my eyes, awaiting my answer.

"Yes, love. I will stay. No matter what comes."
Jem nods, kissing me gently. 'That is all I can ask."

* * * *

"We're away, mates!" Jem yells, standing at the wheel,

steering us out into the bay.

Dark has fallen, and we've waited as long as we can. I

throw in and help with ropes, sails, and whatever else I need
to, the men still not warmed to me, but treating me with a
grudging respect.

I can only hope that we will make it out of Algiers.
Just as I think we are in the clear, a warning shot sails

over our bow. The sound screams in my ears, the splash
where the shot lands too close for comfort.

"Cap'n! Galleon on the starboard!"
"Then row, lads! He'll only have his sails, and the wind is

blowing against him!"

The storm that had been threatening has come on full,

blowing back in toward land. The tide has helped us, and
Sharim, too, but the wind will be against him, indeed.

Thank God our lady Adrianna still has oars.
Half the crew has disappeared below, and I take the place

of one of the pirates, working the sails down to reduce the
resistance.

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"Knew the bastard would try sommat, ey, Jem?" Alan

shouts, and I see Jem nod, his teeth flashing white in the
darkness. Damn, the man, he is enjoying this.

My last sea battle ended poorly. I am not smiling.
"Hard to starboard, men! Try to put distance between us!"

Jem is in his element now, the façade of the gentleman he
has always shown me gone. He barks orders, sending men
running to load cannon and protect the starboard rail.

Before we can even turn in a sluggish half-circle, the

galleon is on us, the tide pushing the heavier boat into our
wake. Cannon fire begins in earnest, with men on both sides
loading and pulling as quickly as they can.

"Abandon oars! All hands on deck! They're going to board

us!" Jem's voice galvanizes us all, scattering us like so many
ants, men pushing out in all directions, weapons at the ready.

We're all going to die. Sharim Reis is simply too strong for

us. In will and in resources. I know him too well.

"Get your arse up here, Hunter," Jem yells, motioning for

me to take the wheel. "I need you to keep steering her out,
no matter what happens."

"We've no oarsman and no sails," I snap, furious at him,

and at myself.

"We have the tide. Keep us off the city walls, damn it."

Grabbing hold of the cloth at my throat, Jem pulls me in to
kiss me hard. "Do not let me down, love."

Then he's off, and I have the wheel.
From my vantage point I can see it all. The sickening

sound of steel hitting flesh resounds over and over again, dull
thuds and screams working their way into the night air. I can

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see men with torches, bringing the thing sailors fear most.
Fire. Shouting warnings, I steer the ship away from the shore
the best I can, hoping against hope that it will be enough.

Jem fights like a lion. There's a reason Sharim wants his

head. The man is tireless, rapier slashing over and over
again. He takes on nearly half again as many as any other
man on board, and wins each round with an ease that takes
my breath away.

The battle rages on for what seems forever. I am deafened

by cannon fire, the sounds of the fight muted now, so I have
little warning besides the feel of a blade whistling by my ear
that my position is finally compromised.

Whirling, I draw my blade and face my attacker, my blood

running cold when I come face to face with Sharim Reis.

"Henry."
I know he cannot hear me with the raging noise, but he

can see my mouth move, and he smiles, sketching me a small
bow.

For a long moment I am a lad of five and ten again, frozen

to the spot, waiting for him to clap me in chains. Then I hear
Jem's battle cry cutting through the night, and I am leaping
at Sharim, my blade singing with the need to draw his blood.

It seems fitting, that I am fighting this man instead of Jem

taking on the honor. He has been ruling me most of my life. It
is time I staged a revolution.

Like the battle below, my fight with Sharim is vicious and

bloody. He slashes at me, his teeth bared, his sword arm
undimmed by his years in the city. My own is strengthened by

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my rage, and by my need to keep my promise to Jem. To
stay with him.

Bleeding from dozens of tiny cuts, Sharim and I circle one

another, my amazement at his presence at the battle fading,
replaced by a steely resolve I did not know I had. He lunges,
I parry, and we circle again, both of us beginning to pant.

The fight below seems to fade, but I cannot spare time to

look. Sharim is grimacing, his face a portrait of rage. "Why
won't you die?" he shouts, lunging at me one last time.

"Hunter!" It's a terrible scream that comes from Jem when

Sharim's rapier slides along my right side.

It is a calculated risk. My own blade slides through his

chest like a ship's prow through clear water. Sharim's gray
eyes widen, his mouth opens, and what might be his name
for me slips out on a gasp.

Then he falls at my feet, utterly vanquished.
Dead.
I am free of him forever.
"Hunter. Jesus Lord. Are you..." Jem is there when I slump

toward the deck, catching me, and the eerie silence catches
my attention.

With their leader dead, Sharim's men have stopped

fighting. We have won the day.

Thank God.
"I'll be fine, love," I tell Jem, reaching out for him. "I

promised to stay, didn't I?"

"With me. Yes. We're leaving the White City for good,

though, aye?"

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Nodding, I let him lift me up, dragging me through the

carnage. "Yes, Jem Nettles. I think it is time to put it behind
me."

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Epilogue
If I were a rich man, I might be able to get out of this

situation with a bribe. Or perhaps if I was nobility I might
ransom myself on my name.

I am neither, naturally, so that eventuality seems unlikely.
Of course, I really do not wish to escape Hunter's clutches,

either.

My hands are tied to the bedposts above my head, my

body stretched out for him to see and taste and touch. I must
be in heaven.

"You look far more at ease than you were the first time I

saw you this way," Hunter says, wandering back to the bed, a
vial of oil clenched in one fist.

"Well, there are no guards, to begin with..." No one but

Hunter and me, in our rented accommodation in Marseilles.
We've taken to spending long months on land, our three
years of privateering providing something of a luxurious living
for us.

"And I have not threatened to beat you," he agrees,

smiling down at me, his blue eyes so at odds with his still
black hair. There is more gray now, but he is still every inch
Hakim Reis, though I would never tell him that.

"I know." Arranging my face into a pout, I arch my body

up off the bed, tempting him.

"I can, if you like."
Looking down at my hard prick, stiff and red from his

earlier touches, waiting for him, quivering, I shake my head.
"I would never last."

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"Then we'll proceed as planned." Laughing, he shakes out

his hair and climbs back on the bed, kneeling between my
legs. It never ceases to amaze me, how this beautiful man
has changed since I first laid eyes upon him.

"Yes. We shall." Spreading my legs, I open for him even

more, ready for his fingers and his cock, needing him as I
have never needed anyone in my life.

"Brilliant." His fingers slide against me, slick with oil,

opening me for him with the most exquisite slowness. In, out,
he pushes me to relax, to stretch, and soon I am writhing for
him, sweat standing on my skin as I fight the ropes that bind
me.

"Hunter. Now, love. Now."
"Now," he agrees, his cock pushing at my entrance, his

muscles standing out under his skin as he tries to keep the
pressure slow and steady.

If I had my hands I would trace the scar Sharim Reis left

on his ribs, or wrap my hands around his back and worship
the raised skin there as well. I love his scars. They are a
testament to his strength.

We move faster, his hips pushing his cock in and out of my

body, his chest flushed a deep red, his nipples tight and hard.
He touched me all the while, teasing my body, his fingers
plucking and scraping at me.

"Please, love." I do not care that I am begging. The need

in me is so deep, so hard in my belly, that I am trembling and
ready to spend in no time. "Please."

"Is this what you want?" he asks, wrapping oil-slick fingers

about my prick and pulling.

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My entire frame shakes, the bed moving beneath me,

ropes creaking. "Yes. Oh, yes."

"Jem." Just that, just my name, and then he is filling me,

spending his seed with a low groan.

The feel of him, the scent of them and the hand on my

prick all prove too much for me, and I shoot for him as well,
my seed coating his hand and my belly, leaving me satiated,
limp and gasping.

Hunter collapses atop me, laughing. "My pirate captive."
"My fearsome Reis."
"Not so fearsome now, am I?" he asks, laughing, stroking

my hair off my face with a clumsy hand.

"You will always be the scourge of the sea to me, my

love." And the man who killed Sharim Reis, I think, though he
would cringe to hear it.

"Ah, yes, but I prefer to think of myself as a man who

keeps his promises," Hunter says, sun lines crinkling up at the
corners of his eyes.

"Yes. Yes, my love. You are the man who tamed Jem

Nettles. Simply by staying with me."

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Fool's Gold
By Mychael Black
To Tim: This is officially your fault.
To Tracy: Thanks for the awesome brainstorming and

generally putting up with me, love.

To Shari: Thank you for wonderful beta-reading!

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PART ONE
"You would think swallowing the captain's cock twice a day

for a little over a year would earn his trust, yet he still saw
me as a rogue who only had eyes for the mountain of Spanish
gold he had sacked away somewhere. It didn't matter that it
was true. It mattered that the trust of his peg didn't equate to
the trust of his horde."

"Keep talking like that and they'll 'ave your head."
I held up one hand and smirked. "And piracy gets me

what? A slap on the wrist?"

My neighbor just snorted and shuffled across the dirty

floor, kicking at the bits of torn cloth and the occasional bone,
most likely picked clean by the rodents which shared our
cells. Thus ended our conversation, I assumed, and my
woeful tale of sinful love. Well, maybe not love, so much as
lust. I bore no ill feelings toward my former captain, 'tis true,
but I certainly did not profess to love the man. When at sea,
without women, men can become randy and desperate,
caring little as to what hole they fuck.

"And what of the ol' cap'n's gold, eh?"
I turned my head, not bothering to turn much else from

my rather comfortable position against the cold stone wall.
"Itching for it, Mathers? Lot of good it will do you here."

"I's just curious," the old man grumbled from his corner.
He was far older than the neighbor to my right. If I

recalled correctly, ol' Mathers had lost his left eye to the tip of
a sword, and the right leg—from the knee, down—to a lead

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ball. Out of the three of us, I was the only one who retained
full function of every bit of anatomy. So far.

I yawned dramatically and tipped my head back just

enough to peer upside down at the barred window above my
head. "Half moon tonight," I observed quietly.

I heard Mathers grunt, the noise a familiar but nauseating

warning . Then came the foul stench that usually followed. I
caught my breath and stared at the half-moon, fighting the
urge to breathe. When breath became a necessity, I gasped
and sucked in a lungful of putrid air. I promptly gagged.

Dobson, on the right, was much luckier than myself. The

old sod had lost his sense of smell years before, though to
what I didn't know. I wasn't sure I wanted to know, really. He
did find my discomfort amusing, however, and his cackles
soon broke out, filling the stale air. I merely gave him a crude
gesture, which only incited further outbursts of coughing fits
of laughter.

Such was my plight, as I waited for the governor to pass

down my sentence. Branded as a pirate, I fully expected the
rope. What I did not expect was a rescuer.

* * * *

"Mr. Bowers?"
When in a prison cell and someone whispers your name,

you can be sure of two things: one, the person is not a
cellmate, as those tend to be less gentile; and two, the
person should not be where he is.

I opened one eye and peered across the darkened cell.

Once the light from the moon lit the small space, a shadow

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took shape just near the door to my cell. I didn't move,
though I did open the other eye.

"Well, since there doesn't seem to be any other gentleman

answering, I suppose I should." I smiled slightly when he
gave me a quizzical look. "Mr. Ian Bowers, at your service.
Though what good I will do in here remains to be seen."

"Are you the Ian Bowers who served as first mate on

Captain Lords' flagship, the Duchess?"

I lifted an eyebrow at the almost courtly young man who

was fighting not to kneel on the grime-ridden floor. "I am.
And who might you be, my good man, to know of my
illustrious servitude to the legendary Captain Lords?"

The young man looked around quickly, then removed his

tricorn cap. "I am Silas Christian, Mr. Bowers, and I am the
only heir to Captain Lords' fortune."

Swallowing a sudden bout of laughter, I managed to sit

upright. "I say, you do look a bit like the good captain. Tell
me, what brings you to Port Royal, Mr. Christian, in the
middle of the night?"

He looked about again, then produced a set of rusting

keys. "I'm here because you are the only living soul who
knows where my father's treasure of Spanish gold is buried."
He unlocked the cell door and stood slowly. "Will you help
me?"

"'Tis wise," I said, not yet moving, "to ask such things

before freeing a pirate. Don't you think, Mr. Christian?"

The truth of those words seemed to sink in and Silas took

two steps back. "I suppose you are correct."

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I smiled as I stood, stretched without taking my eyes off of

him. "What makes you think I won't just kill you outright?"

"You are not armed." His expression did little to match the

brevity of his words.

"Neither are you," I pointed out, walking toward him.

Toward freedom.

He swallowed and took three more steps back. "Then we

are equal."

"Believe me," I said as I took two steps forward, "just

because a man is unarmed, does not make him less
dangerous than a man who is."

A grin was all the warning I gave him before I had my

hand around his slender throat. His eyes widened with
surprise, with fear. I squeezed enough to make my point, but
not hard enough to cause any permanent damage.

"Make no mistake, Mr. Christian," I whispered, so close to

his lips that I could smell the sweet, expensive wine on his
breath, "to trust a pirate is to sign your death warrant. I was
an honest man once, but many others were not. Do I make
myself clear?"

Silas nodded as best he could. When I released him, he

doubled over, drawing in several deep breaths. "Must leave
now," he panted. "Guard will wake soon."

I grabbed the shoulder of his coat and tugged him up the

steps with me. Sure enough, the rotund guard was slumped
onto the table, drool pooling under his face. A bottle of rum—
still half full—sat on the desk by his head. I gave the guard a
mock salute and quietly gathered my effects from the corner

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where they'd been deposited. Then, grabbing Silas' coat
sleeve, I pulled my rescuer out into the balmy night.

We kept to the shadows, stopping only when a lone guard

passed too close for comfort. The jail was near to the fort
itself, which was an unfortunate detail but one I had no time
to worry about just then. I led my wet-behind-the-ears
companion into the darker alleys of the city, where I was
more comfortable and he was not. It gave me a measure of
safety, knowing where I was; whereas, he was less likely to
bolt at any given moment.

"Where are we going?" Silas asked finally, breaking the

silence we'd kept since leaving the jail.

Once I was satisfied with our distance from the fort, I

ducked into an abandoned building, tugging him in behind
me. "Here for the moment." I pushed what was left of the
wooden door closed and went to one of the windows to peer
out through the layer of filth covering the glass. We were
alone.

"Now," I said, turning away from the window to gather my

effects, "how about telling me just what you intend to do now
that you've found me?"

I grabbed my belt and pulled it tight around my waist,

buckling it securely. The weight of my cutlass felt good,
normal. I checked the pouch hanging from the belt for
additional shot, then loaded my pistol. I only glanced up at
Silas once, waiting for his illuminating answer.

Silas brushed a thick layer of dust from a stack of grain,

then sat down. "I have a ship. It's not great, but it's better
than nothing."

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"A ship." I drew my sword and checked the blade, catching

his gaze just beyond the steel. "Are you a sailor, Mr.
Christian?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. He pulled his hat off and

fiddled with the brim, staring down at his lap. "I was groomed
to be a gentleman, by my mother. She would not speak of my
father, only that he was a despicable man."

"Jack Lords was a good man," I corrected him as I

sheathed my sword. "An honest, fair captain, with a good
mind for leading. He was a good sailor."

"So I've heard."
"Why are you searching for his gold now? Why not before

he died?"

Silas shrugged, looked up slightly. "I only knew about the

treasure after I knew he was dead. Mother had letters from
him, some of which made me wonder where she got the
impression that he was so bad."

Settling on another stack of grain sacks, I leaned back on

my elbows and studied the young man before me. Like his
father, Silas Christian had brown hair, though it was certainly
better kept than Jack's had been. While Jack had left his loose
to the wind, Silas' hair was tied back, with only a single
strand having fallen during our escape from the jail. A dark
blue velvet coat topped a frilled white blouse, giving me
pause for a moment as I wondered if maybe Silas had already
found his father's fortune. Then my gaze found a small tear
just on the upper thigh of his black pants. Its edges were
smoothed, not frayed, giving the impression that it had
obviously seen a seamstress' needle at some point. Black

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boots, now dusty, covered his feet, while the black tricorn
hat, which was set to the side, finished the look.

He might have been groomed as a gentleman and he

might have purchased a ship, however small, but I had to
wonder at the state of dress. No gentleman would be caught
with such an unsightly rip in his clothing. Nevertheless, Silas
presented an interesting catch for this old sea dog: unarmed,
young, and undeniably handsome, with an unlined face and
curious blue eyes. I'd indeed found myself a prize, even if we
didn't manage to find ol' Jack's gold.

"And what do I get out of this?" I asked him.
Silas shifted uneasily. "Fifteen percent?" Bartering was

clearly not part of his usual repertoire.

I laughed and sat up, leaning forward. "I could plunder

that much without ever leaving Port Royal, Mr. Christian.
Fifty."

"Twenty."
Sighing, I jumped down and wandered over to the window.

Staring out of it, I said, "Mr. Christian, I am, as of this date,
almost forty years. I have seen more of this world than you
can begin to imagine. I have traded and bartered and bullied
my way through life these past sixteen years as a pirate. Do
not toy with me. I will go no lower than forty."

Silence met my terms, then came a rather dejected sigh.

"Then forty percent you shall have, Mr. Bowers."

"Very good." Turning toward him, I spit in my palm and

offered my hand.

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Silas eyed it, then looked up. It took a moment, but he

finally spit in his palm and shook my hand. "It is done. Now,
what of this ship?"

Silas stood and I opened the door. Looking from right to

left, I waited a moment, listening. Satisfied, I signaled that it
was clear and Silas led the way through the alleys and up a
hill overlooking this part of the city. We walked along the
ridge, keeping low, even though the brush hid us well. When
we reached a small clearing, surrounded by boulders large
enough to provide ample cover, Silas pointed down toward
the harbor. I followed his line of sight.

"The last ship closest to us."
I went to the nearest rock and looked around the side. The

ship he'd indicated looked fairly seaworthy. "I am duly
impressed, Mr. Christian. I'd expected less." I glanced over
my left shoulder at Silas. "How did you manage to come by
such a ship?"

Silas smiled fully for the first time since our meeting. "My

mother sent me abroad, to learn the ways of the world from a
distant uncle. I saved up the healthy allowance she allotted
me and purchased the ship."

Looking back to the small but visually-sturdy sloop, I had

to admit that I was indeed impressed. The single-mast vessel
was of a smaller design than I'd served on in years past, but
what it lacked in storage space, I knew it would make up for
in speed and maneuverability. The ship bore faded but intact
sails, and the hull looked to be in good condition.

"And your crew?"
"I bought it here," Silas said. "I have no crew."

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"Well, given that it is still afloat, I am going to assume it is

indeed sea-worthy."

"Yes, sir."
I couldn't help the grin. Something lit within me, hearing

this young buck call me 'sir', as if I was his master. Oh, the
things I could teach him.

"Then we will find a crew, Mr. Christian." I turned my back

to the harbor and leaned back against the boulder. "I trust
you are not in any rush?"

Silas shook his head. "No, sir. Foolish as it might seem,

I'm relying on you and your knowledge."

Crossing my arms, I allowed my gaze to briefly travel over

him—enough to take in the long, lean body, but not enough
to scare him away. "It is foolish. However, I will do you right,
provided you do the same for me. We shook on it, remember?
I am a man of my word, Mr. Christian."

"As am I." He wandered over to a nearby rock and bent to

brush off a bit of dirt, giving me a fine view of a taut
backside, just waiting for a touch. When he turned back
around to sit, he caught my gaze and for a moment, it
seemed as if he knew what was going through my mind.

"If you expect to survive on a ship," I pointed out, "you

must grow accustomed to dirt and grime. I prefer to keep a
bit cleaner than my peers when possible, but for the most
part, filth is a way of life. And I suggest dressing less finely.
As pretty as you are, you will present a tempting sight to men
who have not been with a woman in a very long time."

Silas' eyes widened and his hand absently touched the

buttoned closure of his velvet coat. "But ... that is a sin..."

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I laughed and shook my head. "My dear Silas, when one

makes stealing, pillaging, killing, and raping his livelihood, the
last thing he is worried about is the state of his soul. When a
man has an itch to scratch and there are no women about,
rest assured that he cares little for what hole he sticks his
cock into."

The movement of his throat was enticing as Silas

swallowed. How I wanted to taste, to bite and lick it while I
plundered parts of him no one had ever seen. "Raping?" he
whispered.

"Unless you present yourself willingly." I smiled slowly,

showing teeth, gaze sweeping openly over him.

"Have you...?"
Pushing away from the rock, I approached him slowly,

stopping only when he had to look up to see me. "I have."

Silas was silent with that pronouncement, blue eyes bright,

innocent, alluring. Another strand of his hair had fallen loose
and I reached out, sliding it between my fingers. He shivered
but didn't pull away. His lips were full with the ripeness of
youth, perfect for a kiss. I wondered what they would look
like—feel like—around my shaft.

"Never go unarmed," I said quietly, tucking the strand of

hair behind his right ear. "Even when you sleep, sleep with a
pistol and a saber."

"I have nothing."
"Oh..." I slipped my fingers down to cup his chin and tilted

his head up. "I believe you have a great deal more than you
realize, Mr. Christian," I whispered, my breath brushing his
lips.

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He gasped and pulled back, leaving my grasp. "I will need

to arm myself then," he said, clearing his throat.

I stepped back to give him some room, but not without

noting the way his gaze lingered on my mouth, then traveled
lower, before he finally looked away. I smiled and returned
my attention to the dark harbor and the sleek vessel that
awaited us. We would need to find a crew and quickly. Lucky
for me, I knew men who would gladly leave Port Royal behind
for the shot at a healthy bounty. I would ensure each
received ten percent of the loot, after Silas and I had taken
our cuts. It was a suitable arrangement for my tastes. The
only thing that would make it perfect in my eyes would be to
have my new financier beneath me, with only skin and heat
between us. But that would come with time; of that, I had no
doubt.

Looking up at the moon as it disappeared behind a bank of

clouds, I sighed. "Come along, Mr. Christian. Let us find
ourselves a crew."

Watching as Silas stood, I found myself fixated on him,

namely his lips. They really were enticing—to the point of
distraction, I dared to think. Our gazes met and his eyes
widened, like a doe caught in a beam of torchlight. In that
moment, I wanted him more than was safe—in any way I
could have him. Propriety matters little to a man of ill repute,
as Silas was quick to discover. Giving him no chance to
protest, I took him in a kiss. His lips parted on a shocked
gasp and I groaned, taking the liberty of plundering the
depths of his mouth. Then he seemed to find himself and with
his hands firmly planted on my chest, Silas put distance

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between us. Those blue eyes were wide and a bit wild, the
look of exasperation quite becoming.

"Perhaps it is you I must protect myself from, Mr. Bowers,"

he said stiffly. He straightened his coat and set his hat on his
head.

I smiled at that, unable to stop myself. "Perhaps."
He waved a hand toward the makeshift path we'd taken to

our hiding place. "After you, sir."

With a single curt nod, I walked back toward the city,

leading the way into the worst part. It was there I knew I
would find our crew. A motley bunch they were, but what
they lacked in trustworthiness, I knew they made up for in
experience. Silas would not agree, but that was not my
concern. I could be persuasive when need arose.

* * * *

The Seven Sails was once Port Royal's shining light for the

well-to-do gentry. Upon its opening, it was the prime inn of
the city, with clientele hailing from all over the world—sailors,
expatriates, even courtesans. Then the owners fell into
disfavor and the inn fell into disrepair. Its doors were closed
for nearly ten years before a local merchant bought the
property. But what was once the beacon of gentility became
the very face of debauchery. The courtesans gave way to
whores of many origins, male and female. The sailors gave
way to pirates. The expatriates ... Well, they remained,
though most of them were of the ne'er-do-well sort.

In short, it was home away from home.

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"Are you certain we can find a respectable crew here?"

Silas kept close to me from the moment we entered the inn,
despite his reaction to my kiss earlier.

A bottle smashed somewhere to our right, signaling the

start of a brawl. I sidestepped a puddle of God-knew-what
and shouted over my shoulder without really looking. "I never
said 'respectable', Mr. Christian!"

The stench of booze and sweat and vomit were strong, but

I'd long grown accustomed to such things. I couldn't say the
same for my poor companion, however. Silas was near green
at the gills, eyes watering as he looked to me for
reassurance. The brawl migrated suddenly and a body sailed
through the air, crashing onto the tabletop behind him. I
leaned back and caught Silas just before the table took him
down with it.

"Unhand me," he snapped.
I raised an eyebrow, but did not let him go. "Might I

remind you who is the most experienced in this situation?"
His gaze narrowed. "Do not question my integrity. If I really
wanted you, I would take you."

"I am not," he shouted over the din, jumping slightly went

the fighting escalated to involve several bottles on the bar
beside us, "questioning your integrity!"

Without another word, I slapped six coins on the bar near

the stalwart keeper and seized Silas' arm, dragging him up
the stairs, which were in dire straits without the excitement
below them. When we reached an empty room, I shoved him
inside and slammed the door shut. Pulling the rusting key

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from the lock, I took a short survey of the doorframe as he
pounded on the door from the other side.

"Ian Bowers! Let me out this instant!"
"Not until I've collected our crew," I said calmly, pocketing

the key.

"I am not a kept boy for you to look after! I am a grown

man!"

I checked the shot in my pouch and whistled a jaunty little

tune. "I've no intention of keeping you, my dear Mr.
Christian."

The pounding stopped and I heard what could only be his

forehead banging one final time against the wooden door.
"Then why lock me in here?" He was no longer shouting, at
least.

"Because," I replied, craning my neck to see down the

stairs, "I must protect my finances."

"You know where the gold is."
"But you have the ship. I will return in short order."
With that, I left him and went back, stopping halfway down

the steps. The fight had died down and most of the inn's
patrons were nursing some form of injury or another. I
scanned the crowd—now that I could—until I found the man
for whom I'd been looking. Smiling, I descended the stairs
and stopped at the bar.

"Rum and ale."
After handing the bartender the coins, I took my mug and

the rum bottle to a table in the far corner, with a bird's eye
view of the front door. I set both down none-too-gently,
startling the haggard-looking man awake. One eye peered

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drearily up at me; the other was covered with a worn black
patch made of stitched cloth.

"Where the bloody 'ell...?"
"It's nice to see you, too, McCrary." I twisted the chair

opposite the man around and straddled it.

"Thought you was dead."
"Might've been by now, if it weren't for a mysterious turn

of fortune," I said, taking a sip of my ale.

McCrary stared at the rum bottle like it might have been

poisoned. Then he looked back up at me, that one half-good
eye scrutinizing. "Rope?"

"Almost." I nodded to the bottle, still untouched. "Drink.

I've business to discuss."

"Business." He grabbed the bottle with an aged hand,

callused but steady, and took a long swallow. Droplets of rum
splashed up and clung to the gnarled and knotted moustache,
but he didn't bother wiping it. "What business?"

"I have a proposition to make," I said, leaning closer,

conspiratorially. "I'm going after Lords' cache."

"Yer mad."
"I'm driven."
"By what?"
"His son."
"Lords ne'er had no son," McCrary snorted.
"Oh, my old friend, he did indeed." My smile must have

been enough.

"You got a ship?"
"Waiting in the harbor."

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McCrary cracked a mostly-toothless smile. "Aye, I be sailin'

then."

"Think the others will be game?"
He pursed his lips, which given the state of his mouth, was

a comically unpleasant sight. "Aye, they'll be persuaded."

"Excellent. We leave at dawn." I finished off my ale and

stood. "The small sloop tethered farthest from the fort."

"What'll we be gettin'?"
"Ten percent of the total bounty, fifteen for my first mate."

I tossed a small purse onto the table.

McCrary opened the purse, then looked up at me with a

nod of approval. "Aye, Captain Bowers. You got yer mate."

With a final nod, I turned and headed for the stairs once

more. I thought for a moment to get another drink, but
passed by the bar without stopping. I had the feeling I'd have
my hands full when I returned to the room. Upon reaching
the door, I pulled out the key and pressed my ear to the
wood. When I heard nothing, I unlocked the door and stepped
inside. Silas was standing at the window, arms crossed,
staring out at the dirty, dark street below. Only when I shut
the door did I notice the hole he'd put there earlier.

"Our crew will meet us at the ship. We sail at—" I never

got the rest out. Just as I turned, Silas' fist connected with
my jaw, sending me stumbling back against the door. I shook
my head and opened my mouth several times, just to make
sure nothing was permanently damaged.

"You are an uncouth, arrogant, despicable man."

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"Aye," I grunted as I righted myself. "And that's the nicest

thing anyone's ever said to me." I smirked at him, which
didn't wear away any of his steam.

"I've a mind to cancel the whole thing," he snarled. He

twisted on his heel and stalked over to the bed, dropping
down onto it.

"Given that the deal has been made, I wouldn't suggest

it."

I pushed off from the door and went to the basin. The

pitcher sitting just behind it must have once looked quite
elegant, but now the flowers painted on its surface were
faded and the glaze was spider-webbed with tiny cracks. I
poured a bit of the stale water into the basin and proceeded
to splash my face. The looking glass was cracked in two
places and smudged, but I was able to make out my
reflection. There would be a bruise on the left side of my jaw,
but I'd had worse. I caught Silas staring at me in the glass.

"Your arm is good," I commented. "Did they teach you that

in your studies abroad?"

"No."
I barely managed to stifle the chuckle. He looked quite the

catch when incensed, and the blow had served only to incite
my desire for him even more. Without taking my gaze from
his in the looking glass, I pulled my soiled shirt over my head.
He never looked away, though he did shift on the bed.

"What are you doing?"
"I told you," I said as I kicked off first one boot, then the

other. "I prefer to keep as clean as possible."

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I untied my pants and pushed them down, catching a

glimpse of Silas' guilty but entranced gaze. When he saw me
looking, he quickly averted his eyes. I splashed more water
on my body, wetting myself from neck to foot. Having no
soap to speak of, I had to make do with water alone,
scrubbing my hands over my skin in an attempt to wipe away
the grime. So preoccupied I'd become with my impromptu
bathing, that I didn't hear him move. When I finally looked
up, however, he'd taken a seemingly more comfortable
position on the bed—in full view of me. I smiled, though to
myself, and took myself in hand.

In the stifling silence of the room, I heard his breath catch.

It was enough to know he was watching. Moving slowly, I
remained where I stood, fingers sliding over my length, slow,
familiar. I'd not touched myself since they caught me, but
now, with this young buck's eyes riveted on my every move, I
reveled in the sensation of skin on skin.

Letting my head fall back, I closed my eyes, left hand on

the edge of the basin stand. Heat pooled in my groin, building
slowly, moving upward. I locked my knees as need settled
like a knot in my gut, my breath hissing out through my
clenched teeth as my thumb passed over my slit. Pressing in
just the slightest bit, the burn was exquisite, sharp and
necessary. I heard the blanket on the bed rustle and
imagined him taking himself in hand. My fingernails dug into
the wood of the stand and lightning shot through me,
bursting out of my cock in spurts.

Another catch of breath followed, then a stifled sigh. I

smiled and released myself. Choosing to save him his dignity,

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I didn't look at him in the looking glass as we cleaned
ourselves off.

* * * *

"Mr. Christian."
My companion didn't wake, just shifted and grumbled

something unintelligible. I sighed and bunching the
threadbare blanket in my fist, stripped the bedding off of him.

"Silas!"
He moved then.
"What in God's name?" Silas jumped out of the bed,

startled awake, shaking. Then he blinked and looked around
at me. "Oh." His countenance changing was an interesting
thing to witness—from half-asleep youth he was, to the
prideful, gentile man he professed himself to be. "What
manner of man are you to wake someone in such a way?"

"A determined and hungry one," I answered simply. "Get

dressed, Mr. Christian. We've a ship and crew to meet."

He'd slept in his trousers, which was undoubtedly a good

thing. His chest was still hairless, though I caught a fleeting
glimpse of a thin strip of dark brown curls, drawing my gaze
downward. The black cloth was form-fitting, outlining a long
cock. I remembered the night before, and smiled as I
watched him pull his blouse over his head. Our gazes met and
I was rewarded with a blush, then he looked away.

"Would you please hand me my boots?" he muttered,

waving in the general direction of the foot of the bed.

I picked them up, but instead of handing them over the

bed, I walked around to stand beside him. "What would your

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relations say if they knew?" I asked, setting his boots on the
bed before him.

"I know nothing of which you speak." He sat down and

pulled first one boot on, then the other.

Stepping in front of him, I held out his velvet coat, open

with the inside facing him. He looked up at me and after a
moment, stood and turned his back, slipping his arms into the
sleeves. I pulled the coat up onto his shoulders, then reached
around him to button the front.

"What would they say if they knew what transpired last

night?" I whispered in his ear.

Silas tensed, the shift of his body driving my sudden

arousal up a notch as his backside brushed the front of my
pants. "You are incorrigible," he hissed.

"I am a man and nothing more."
"Release me."
"No."
"Why not?" He tried to pull away, but I held him fast

against me, closing my eyes with the pressure to my groin. "I
swear it. I will—"

"Will what, Silas?" I whispered, this time giving the curve

of his ear a flick with my tongue. He wrenched his head away
from me. "Report me and my sinful, sodomite ways? Perhaps
you can also tell them how you single-handedly drugged the
prison guard during a round of casual drinks, then freed a
known pirate."

"What do you want?"
"Besides my share of the gold?"
He nodded.

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I gripped his chin and turned his head to face me, our lips

scant inches apart. "A proper kiss."

"I gave you a kiss," he argued.
"I took a kiss," I countered. "This will be one you initiate."
"Why should I?"
I leaned in, but didn't move to kiss him. "Because, my

dear Mr. Christian, I hold the key to your fortune."

"I despise you, Mr. Bowers. More than any man I've ever

had the displeasure of meeting."

I did not have the opportunity to answer him. Silas opened

his mouth on mine then and took full control of this, our
second kiss. Gone was the untutored youth I'd stolen a kiss
from before; here was the man I was desperate to taste in
every sinful way I could. Silas' tongue swept through my
mouth, fighting my own for dominance of the kiss. I was
intrigued, having thought him unschooled in such things. His
neck was craned, the line of his throat smooth, beckoning my
hand. Unable to help myself, I moved one hand up to trace
the curve, down to the hollow of his throat, with my fingertip.
He moaned softly, but then he broke the kiss and stepped to
the side, out of my arms.

"You've had your kiss," he said. "Now I will have my

fortune."

"Aye, that you will, Mr. Christian. Shall we?" I motioned

toward the door, but he shook his head.

"No." He held up my pistol, aimed at me. "After you."
"So, you are gifted with a sleight of hand as well. I am

doubly impressed. Very well, keep it. I will find another.

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Though..." I untied the pouch of shot and tossed it at him,
which he caught with his other hand. "...you will need that."

"Thank you."
Giving him my best courtly bow, I turned and led the way

out and back down to the main room of the inn. While the inn
was not quiet or empty by any means, it was subdued from
what it had been upon our arrival hours before. The table
previously occupied by my new First Mate now bore a no-
doubt crooked game of Primero. I did not dally and instead
continued through to the front door.

Dawn was not yet fully upon the harbor, the moon still

illuminating the city proper. Maintaining caution, however, we
kept to the shadows once again, until we reached the ship
that would bear us to La Horquilla del Diablo—The Devil's
Cradle.

True to his word, what little that meant, McCrary was

there, along with a crew of, at rough count, fifty-one,
including Mr. McCrary himself. Before I could join him for a
private word, Silas took hold of my arm, pulling me off to the
side. I looked down at where he had me and felt the prod of
my pistol in my ribs.

"I took the liberty, before freeing you, to provision the

ship. We are ready to sail."

"And I trust there are suitable arms aboard?"
He nodded. Now I was thoroughly intrigued with this man,

for I knew him to be just that. I'd at first thought him to be
young, and while his years might have been, he certainly—in
countenance—was not. I fully intended to ply his mind, to find
out his secrets.

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"Very well. Mr. McCrary!"
"Aye, Cap'n Bowers?"
"Get the men aboard. See that there are suitable

provisions and arms, then ready the ship for sail."

"Aye, Cap'n!" The old man turned and started barking

orders, the men scrambling to obey him.

I turned my attention back to my mysterious financier.

"You are a most surprising young man, Mr. Christian. First
you feign innocence, only to kiss me like you know very well
what you are doing. Then you steal my pistol from under my
nose."

"I am a man of means, Mr. Bowers." He pressed the pistol

harder and nodded toward the ship.

"I wonder," I mused as we walked abreast to the sloop,

"who is truly the brigand here."

"As I said, Mr. Bowers—"
"Yes," I interrupted him, turning to look at him before

boarding the ship, "you are a man of means." I leaned close,
despite the firearm digging into my side, and whispered, "But
you forget, I am one as well." With that, I boarded the vessel,
Silas following close behind me.

Before long, the Marie's Fortune was leaving the harbor of

Port Royal behind. I had the wheel, while Mr. Christian stood
close by, suspiciously well for someone who was not
accustomed to the seas. He appeared at ease as we made our
way south, asking no questions—indeed, remaining utterly
silent—until the land disappeared entirely behind us.

"Might I have a word?"

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"Certainly." I did not look at him and instead kept my gaze

on the blue waters stretching out before us. How I loved the
sea and her deceptive beauty.

"In private, Mr. Bowers."
I looked at him then. "When in company, you will address

me as Captain."

Silas remained silent for several minutes, the steel in his

gaze going to parts of me best left unaffected at that
moment. "As you wish ... Captain."

"Mr. McCrary!"
"Aye, Cap'n!"
"You have the wheel. Mr. Christian and I have business to

attend to. Keep your course."

"Aye, Cap'n." McCrary dropped the sea-water-soaked rope

he'd been coiling and took hold of the wheel.

"If you please," I said, motioning down to the deck. Much

to my surprise, Silas went first this time, though I kept my
expression neutral. I followed him down and into the captain's
quarters, closing the door to give us privacy. "Would you like
a drink, Mr. Christian?" I didn't wait for his answer and took a
mouthful of the rum I'd found stashed away in a forgotten
trunk.

"Who are these men?"
I closed my eyes, loving the burn. "Every single man on

board this ship served under Captain Lords, Mr. Christian."

"So you know them?"
"I do."
"Do you trust them?"
Giving him a stern look, I answered truthfully. "No."

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Silas didn't seem moved and sat upon the miniscule bunk.

"I don't think I really expected a 'yes.'"

"Then why ask me if you know the answer?"
Leaning back against the hull, knees apart, arms crossed

on his chest, Silas Christian suddenly looked older, wiser than
I'd given him credit for.

"What are you?"
His gaze remained fixed on me, unwavering ... unnerving.

"I told you."

"Yes, yes," I muttered, tipping back the bottle for another

swallow. I feared I would need it. "But mark my words, Mr.
Christian; I am no fool, though I feel I've been played for
one. You might very well be the son of Captain Jack Lords,
but by no means are you a gentleman—learned or otherwise."

"What are you implying, Captain?" he asked, annoyingly

unperturbed.

Another moment of silence passed, the two of us staring at

each other, searching. "That there is much more to you than
meets the eye," I said finally.

"Perhaps you are right." Silas stood and through the bottle

as I drank, I watched him close the distance between us.
"And who are you, Ian, that knows where my father's
treasure is buried, when no other man in existence would?"

I lowered the bottle and found myself pinned by an almost

familiar blue gaze. "I was his lover."

"It was you he spoke so fondly of in his letters to my

mother," Silas said. He took the bottle from my hand and set
it on the desk beside me.

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"I highly doubt he found me much more than a mouth for

his cock."

Silas fixed those eyes on me and I began to wonder if this

conversation was about my relations with his father ... or with
him. "You must have been much more for him to disclose
such information, Ian."

"Why is it your concern?"
"Because," Silas whispered, stepping so close that we

breathed the same air, "either he cared greatly for you..."
Spellbound, I watched those lips move as he spoke. "...or you
forced the information out of him."

"I did no such thing." I stepped back from him for the first

time. "I am no rapist."

Silas smiled. "As a man of your word, I will take you at

that. My father was indeed fond of you and I would hate to
find that you used him for ill gains."

"And what of you, Silas?"
He tipped his head quizzically, but then smiled again.

"What of me? I still think you are a wicked, contemptuous
man..."

"Ah, yes. The man you despise above all others," I

remarked coolly.

I suddenly found myself pinned against the hull, Silas'

body flush with mine. To say I was confounded wasn't far
from the mark. He must have seen my confusion; the utter
shock was no doubt reflected in my eyes.

"I am no innocent," he said. He captured my wrists and

wrested my arms behind me.

"I am quickly learning that."

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He descended on my neck, teeth grazing sharply, tongue

following the curve. "And I am far from a gentleman, Captain
Bowers."

Without giving me the chance to respond, he lifted his

head and kissed me. I'd once thought that my soul was gone,
flushed to the depths with every damnable thing I'd done in
the sixteen years I'd been at sea, but I knew at that moment
that I'd been wrong. My soul was indeed lost forever ...
swallowed by a man who was far more than he seemed.

I've taken a man into me many times, though I much

preferred to do the giving. Silas, however, seemed to have
his own intentions. Breaking the kiss, he swiped the rum
bottle off of the desk and spun me around, bending my body
over the desktop.

"I trust you have something to ease the way," I quipped,

glancing at him over my shoulder.

"I do." Silas leaned over me, pressing me to the wood. His

breath was hot on my cheek as he tugged open a drawer. He
pulled out a vial of dark liquid, offering no explanation as to
the contents. "I will have you, Captain Bowers," he whispered
in my ear.

My voice was gruff, even to my own ears. "Aye. Then do

it."

Silas rose up and worked my pants down over my hips,

leaving them to pool atop my boots. He pushed a knee
between my thighs, spreading them as he freed himself. I
craned my head around, wishing a look at what would soon
be inside me. He was indeed long—slender and erect. The

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foreskin was back, exposing the bulbous tip, leaking
profusely. I licked my lips unconsciously, and he chuckled.

"You will get a taste later," Silas said. He poured some of

the liquid over two fingers, then leaned forward. "Let me in,
Ian," he murmured.

I was too focused on those fingers breaching my body to

respond. Groaning, I rested my forehead to the desk and
shifted my hips, offering myself to my most enigmatic
companion. He worked them deeper, opening me, stretching
my body when it had not seen such activity in quite some
time. When his fingertips touched that one place deep inside,
my entire frame jerked, the moan slipping free unbidden.

"Yes..." Silas had me quite in hand then. I would have

given him anything; he had only to ask. "Are you ready for
me, Ian?"

It was all he seemed to want from me: my acquiescence.
"Please." I'd never begged a man—not for my life, not for

bounty, not for mercy.

But this man, I begged to take me.
"Silas..."
Those fingers left and Silas pushed in, filling me

completely.

He pulled out until only the barest tip remained, then

plunged back in. My body instinctively arched, pushed back to
drive him deeper. Silas took my hands and placed them
outward. I gripped the edge of the desk and turned my head,
meeting his lips in a heated, hungry kiss as he ground his
pelvis to my buttocks.

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"Do it," I growled into his mouth. "If you want me, then

take me, Silas."

"Then I shall."
Rising up, Silas took hold of my hips and braced himself

firmly. Then took me he did, over and over, cock thrusting in
and out of my body with enough force to push the air from
my lungs. I rode every one, grunting against the wood as he
drove us both closer to the inevitable. I knew he was close
when his movements stuttered for a moment, then
strengthened. I wanted more than anything to feel him spend
himself inside me.

"Ian."
I shoved the heel of my palm into my mouth to stifle the

shout as I came. Heat spread under me, over the desk. Silas
thrust hard one last time and stayed there, panting and
grunting, his seed filling my body.

Inexorably worn, I slumped onto the desk, feeling like a

common whore as he pulled out, leaving me well-used. I
finally managed to move and made it to the bunk, pants still
down to my boots. Looking up at him, as he wiped himself
clean with a spare shirt, I realized gold was not the only
treasure I was seeking. I wanted him. Even after the deed
was said and done, I desperately wanted Silas in whatever
way I could have him.

* * * *

By the time I took the wheel, the sun was bright above us.

I licked my lips, tasting the salt from the air, and smiled.

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Home. I was finally home again, back on the sea where I
belonged.

Silas and I had not exchanged words since our tryst in my

quarters, and part of me was grateful for that fact. I was not
pleased with myself at how quickly he had me. The issue of
taking him inside me was not the problem; the issue of my
losing much more than my wits was. I'd never been so
infatuated with anyone—man or woman.

"Cap'n!"
"Aye, Mr. McCrary, I see her!"
The old man's expression was one of expectant glee, but I

had other goals in mind than pillaging a merchant vessel. The
ship was just on the horizon, Spanish flag stout in the wind. I
shook my head.

"We are going to La Horquilla del Diablo, Mr. McCrary. I do

not wish to deviate from our course to chase a merchant
ship."

McCrary wandered off and I watched him closely, my trust

going to no man aboard. I did not expect any sort of mutiny,
but since taking up the call years ago, I'd seen my fair share
of them. McCrary seemed to take my directive well enough,
busying himself with menial tasks with the other men.

I'd just settled back into a semblance of calm when a

familiar face appeared at the foot of the steps. Silas ascended
the steps and went to the rail, looking out over the crystal
blue water. I spared him a quick glance, gaze going
immediately to his backside. I would have that, I was certain.

"Do your men know of your proclivities?" Silas asked,

turning around to face me.

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"Some of them do," I answered with a nod. "They simply

do not care." I tore my gaze from his and fixed it back where
it belonged. "And what of you, Mr. Christian? What is your
history, given that you are certainly no gentleman."

"I was sent abroad for tutoring, that much was true. I was

given an allowance, but not nearly enough to afford this ship.
Having set my mind to find my father's treasure, I took to..."
he paused, as if trying to sort out his words. "...relieving
travelers of their purses."

Without looking at him, I smiled. "A highwayman. How

intriguing. And the guise of an innocent, young man?"

Silas' voice was suddenly closer, just near my right ear,

though our bodies did not touch. "I know the ways of men
more than women," he whispered. "It was why I was sent
away, in hopes of 'correcting' my confusion in preference."

"I see. So your family does know."
"They do, and I am forbidden from the family fortune."
"Hence why you are searching for your father's gold."
"Precisely."
I turned my head just enough to see his face, which put

our lips dangerously close in the open. "Then I wish you the
best when we find it, Mr. Christian."

Silas smiled and for a moment, I thought he would kiss

me. Then he stepped back, giving me room to breathe and
clear my head of images of the incident in my cabin. When
our task was done, he would be gone. I didn't know if he
planned on taking the ship, or if he would be willing to part
with it. I knew the gold existed, and I knew the crew would
be happy to continue sailing under my command; but what of

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Silas? I found myself desiring a long acquaintance with a man
I barely knew at all.

We fell into a companionable, but not entirely

uncomfortable, silence. The day passed rather peacefully, the
men having plenty of time to entertain themselves with
bawdy tunes shouted out of key. Silas remained close by my
side, though I no longer was concerned with his safety. He'd
proven to me, in numerable ways, that he could indeed take
care of himself.

Our voyage would not be a long one, but the ship was

provisioned for a considerable amount of time at sea. Just
after dusk, I ordered Mr. McCrary to have our dinners served
in my cabin. Turning the wheel back to him, Silas and I left
the crew to their drunken songs and retired to the privacy of
the captain's quarters.

While it was by no means a feast, we received the best the

cook had to offer. A leg of meat—lamb, I assumed at first
glance, a half-loaf of dry bread with a thick crust, and a tray
of fruit, made our dinner. I was duly impressed with Mr.
Christian, yet again, for provisioning the ship with such fare.
As we sat down to our meal, he poured us both a cup of wine.

"Tell me, Mr. Bowers." He sat back on the bunk, which

served as his seat for the meal, and sipped his wine, that blue
gaze never leaving mine. "You are much better spoken, and
certainly better kempt, than the men who serve you. What
led you to this life on the high seas?"

Taking an apple, I reclined in my chair and kicked my feet

up on the corner of the desk. "Like you, Mr. Christian, I was
once a man of means. I hailed from a wealthy family. My

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father was a merchant who did quite well in his trade. My
mother was a socialite, and I, along with my three sisters and
two brothers, was raised among the aristocracy surrounding
the Crown."

"So you are English then."
I nodded and took a bite of the apple.
"What happened to land you here?" He waved his arm

about the cabin.

"Shame. Though not my own. My father was found with a

dockhand, thus cementing my family's ruin forever. Business
dried up and my mother left us to return to her family home.
My father turned a drunkard upon her departure. My sisters
left with my mother; my brothers took up arms for the
Crown. And I ... took to the highways."

"A fellow brigand before you took to the seas, then?"
"Aye. Which, I suppose, is why I was quite abashed with

myself when you managed to steal my own pistol from under
my nose."

Silas smiled slyly and reached out, tearing a hunk of bread

from the loaf. "I've had practice."

"So I've gathered. Did you mean to play me all the way to

the isle?"

He seemed to think on that for a moment as he chewed.

"It was my intention, yes. Then I discovered, none too subtly
mind you, your preference for men. I could not resist the
temptations you present in such close quarters, Mr. Bowers."

"So you mean to simply seduce me, then be gone with the

treasure."

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Silas feigned hurt at my statement. "Heavens, no. I told

you: I am a man of my word, Captain. I do mean to seduce
you and take my share, but not without payment to you and
your crew."

I wasn't sure if that was meant to ease my concerns or

not. "I thank you for your candor," I said dryly.

"My pleasure." My dinner companion replied with a wink.
Dinner forgotten, I dropped my feet to the floor and stood.

Silas watched me with an amused but knowing gaze. When I
stopped in front of him, he set his bread and cup to the side
on a ledge, then smirked up at me.

"Are you not hungry, Mr. Bowers?"
I took my time looking him over, from the disheveled

brown hair on his head, to the noticeable bulge in his
trousers. "I have other flavors that I wish to sample."

"Like...?" He shifted, thighs spreading so I stood between

them, staring down at him.

"Pure English male," I murmured, lowering myself to my

knees. He began untying his pants, but I brushed his hands
aside and did it for him. "The finest the country has to offer."

"I don't know about that..." His words trailed off, voice

going husky as I pulled him free and licked the tip of his cock.
His thighs tightened around me and his fingers moved
through my hair, my name barely a whisper.

Salty, bittersweet, like the ocean air. I licked away the

droplets, taking his taste into me. Silas was beyond words,
just breathy sounds drifting down around me as I swallowed
his length. His cock felt like steel on my tongue, smooth and

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slick as velvet. The grip on my head strengthened and Silas
lifted his hips, pushing deeper.

"Ian."
I nodded and held onto his hips, encouraging the

movements, all but begging him to take my mouth. Relaxing
my throat, I swallowed, Silas' groan the only warning I had
before he started thrusting. His body tensed, muscles taut
beneath my hands as the flesh in my mouth flexed, pouring
his warm seed down my throat. I pulled back and licked him
clean, smiling at the wanton, almost drained look on his face.

"And what would you have from me?" he asked after a

moment to catch his breath.

Sliding my hands beneath him, I worked his trousers

further down. "I would be inside you."

"Remove my boots, if you will, and you may have what

you wish."

I divested us both of our clothing and Silas shifted,

stretching out along the length of my bunk. One hand lazily
caressed his stomach, while he rested the other beneath his
head, watching me as I retrieved the oil he'd used on me.

"What is it?" I asked, tipping the bottle and peering into

the dark gold contents.

"An old family recipe."
"For easing the way in buggery?" One eyebrow raised, I

removed the stopper from the bottle and set it on the ledge
within easy reach. Then I knelt on the bed between his legs
and lifted them, leaving him open to my hungry gaze. "Food
be damned. I will take great pleasure in feasting on you."

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Silas caught his legs and held them, freeing my hands.

"Such bold claims. I am waiting."

I lowered myself and breathed him in—man, salt, the

faintest hint of soap. His entrance beckoned me and I gave
in, licking the puckered skin. Silas groaned and shuddered,
hips canting toward me. I spread his buttocks apart with my
hands and licked again, moaning, mouth full of the musky
taste. When I pointed my tongue and pierced his body, Silas
gasped my name.

"Don't stop," he whispered. "More."
Feast, I did. I licked and sucked until tongue and mouth

were sore with pleasure. Silas was panting, eyes glazed, lips
parted like a whore's as he let his legs back down around me.
I slicked two fingers and slid them deep into his body, eagerly
watching the need blossom as a flush over his skin. His
fingers curled to my shoulders and he rocked his hips,
impaling himself over and over on my fingers.

"Now, Ian," he demanded, voice gruff, thick.
I withdrew my fingers and pressed against him. With one

slow push, I sank inside him, my breath leaving to follow my
soul. Seating myself flush against his backside, his thighs
resting atop mine, I stilled, caught in his gaze.

How did I let this happen?
He cupped the back of my neck and pulled me down onto

him, interrupting my thoughts. "Take me, Ian," he whispered
across my lips.

I captured his mouth in a kiss to silence him—to silence

myself. Withdrawing, I shifted my angle and thrust back in.
His eyes snapped open and his moan filled the kiss, our eyes

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locked onto each other as I took everything he gave me. The
heat of his body was exquisite—tight, addictive. Every stroke
was pure bliss, and the sounds of encouragement he made
spurred me on, wanting him to remember this—to remember
me—when we parted ways.

"Ian. Yes..."
Silas pulled from the kiss and tipped his head back, body

bowing beneath me, rocking in rhythm with mine. I kissed his
throat, followed the curve with my tongue, licked away the
salt, the sweat, and as he cried out, heat spilling between us.
I followed quickly behind him, thighs rock-hard as I filled him
with my release. We stayed there for long moments, panting,
working to catch our breaths. There were no words
exchanged between us, though the weight of my own
thoughts was heavy upon me.

In a day's time, I would have to let him go. I'd known him

for only a few days and I felt as if I'd known him for ages.
Within him, I'd found a kindred spirit, however infuriating he
might be at times.

He was every bit his father's son.

* * * *

By midmorning of our second day at sea, the northern

coast of the island was in view. I had the wheel, though my
thoughts were far from riches of gold and jewels. The night
before still lingered in my mind, my body tightening as it
remembered everything we'd done.

Silas stood at the rail, his back to me, gaze intent on some

point on the distant horizon only he could see. He'd grown

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silent upon waking, and I wondered if perhaps he held
regrets. I kept my tongue when questions formed; he offered
no explanations.

Like his father, he saw me as nothing but a means to an

end.

Like his father, Silas Christian had taken the one thing

from me that I thought I'd locked away: my heart.

"Mr. McCrary, ready a boat," I called out. "We will drop

anchor in the cove, row to land."

"Aye, Cap'n!"
My first mate hurried a group of men to follow my orders

as I took us through to the cove. I remembered when Jack
had found this place, telling me about his wealth stashed
away deep inside a cave, just beyond the oasis on the center
of the isle. When I asked him why he was telling me the exact
location of such a hoard, he just smiled and entered me,
driving all questions out of my mind.

"Captain." Silas' voice startled me out of my memories.
"Yes, Mr. Christian?"
"I do hope you intend on taking me with you onto the

island."

It was not a question, but I'd no intentions of leaving him

on the ship as it was. "Yes. As the good captain's son, you are
entitled to know where his fortune rests. We will take you
there and help you get it back to the ship. Once our cuts are
made from the total, we will take you where you wish, though
I'd rather avoid Port Royal in any case."

"Understood," Silas said. "And you?"

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I sighed, kept the ship steady as we entered the cove. "I

do not know, Mr. Christian. Perhaps ... perhaps it is time to
find a spit of land, build a home, and find some way to occupy
my days."

"I thought you belonged to the sea." Silas was closer,

brushing my hair over my shoulder.

Unable to stop it, I shivered under that touch. "Everything

comes to an end, Mr. Christian. Even things we wish to
last..."

"You are a good man, Ian. I do not think you will remain a

pirate all of your days."

"It's no longer gold that I wish for, Jack."
"If it is my heart you seek ... then know you have won it."
"Then why leave me?"
"Because everything comes to an end, Ian."
"Captain Bowers?"
I shook my head and glanced at Silas out of the corner of

my eye. "I'm sorry. You were saying?"

One eyebrow rose, Silas curious but not venturing to press

the matter. "I asked you what you thought you might do, in
your retirement from this life."

"I do not know," I answered quietly.
A hand moved up my back, fingers playing along my spine.

"Find yourself a woman, settle down with a family?"

I'd grown to crave that touch, but I kept my gaze firmly

fixed on the shore as the men readied to drop anchor. "I've
no inclinations for such things."

"Have you no dreams?" Silas asked.

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I felt his heat pressing into me. It took every bit of my

resolve not to lean into him. I had dreams—desires that had
no chance of ever being voiced. I'd pleaded with Jack Lords to
stay with me. I refused to do the same with his son.

"My dreams died long ago. I've come to terms with that."
There was a tremendous splash as the anchor dropped into

the water. The men heaved a small boat over the side and
lowered it. I left the wheel, Silas behind me, and we made
our way to the rail. Once we, and six of my men, were on
board the boat, we shoved off and started for the shore.
Silas, once again, was silent, and a part of me was grateful
for that. Our conversation at the wheel had been brief, but it
touched on things I'd hoped to keep hidden—even from
myself.

We landed and the men pulled the boat up onto the sand

as I drew my sword, while Silas held my pistol. I led our little
entourage into the jungle, hacking at vines that covered the
way along the overgrown but slightly visible path.

"Why are you showing me this?"
"Because, Ian, you are the one man I trust enough in this

world to know my secrets."

I couldn't help but remember Jack now. I thought I'd

pushed him away, made the things that had happened
between us into nothing more than meaningless trysts. I
loved him; it was something I could no longer deny. And now,
as I led the way deeper into the jungle, I admitted, to myself,
that I'd fallen in love with his son. Perhaps it was my heart's
way of making up for the fact that Jack had left me, or
perhaps ... it was the way Silas looked at me. I saw Jack in

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his eyes, in the way he moved, the way he kissed. Damned if
I could have saved myself from falling.

Insects swarmed and buzzed around us, the men smacking

themselves when something took a bite. It was humid and
sticky, and our clothes clung to us, damp with sweat.
Everywhere, I smelled the color green—cloying, earthy and
thick. We encountered no predators, save for the mosquitoes
and the occasional snake that chanced to slither across the
path. Exotic birds flew overhead, cawing to one another, their
brightly-colored feathers giving yet more vibrancy to this
paradise away from the rest of the world.

By the time we reached the oasis, the men were ready to

stop for a spell. We came out of the thicket and onto the bank
of a small lake, the sand on the beach white and covered in
little pebbles. The water was cool and crisp, and the men took
to it, wetting their faces and cupping their hands to drink. I
doused my own face, then sat on a fallen tree trunk. Silas
joined me in silence. Then he surprised me by placing his
hand on mine where it rested on the bark.

"I knew my father," he said finally.
I looked at him. Jack had never even spoken of a son, yet

here I sat with the man's progeny. I waited for Silas to
continue.

"We exchanged letters, though they were not terribly

regular due to the circumstances at the time. He spoke of
you, of how faithful you were, of your loyalty."

"He was a good man, that Jack Lords. Finest damned

captain I've ever known."

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Silas nodded, gave my hand a gentle squeeze. "As are

you."

I stared down at the ground as a beetle made off with a

leaf bigger than itself.

"He also talked of your love for him."
Closing my eyes, I took a deep but silent breath. "I will not

lie to you. I loved your father dearly."

"He loved you as well, Ian."
I opened my eyes and looked up at him, getting lost for a

moment in his eyes. He was so much like his father. "But it
was not enough."

"No. It was not. My father belonged to the sea."
"And you?"
The words were out before I could stop them. I

immediately stood, pulling my hand from Silas'. I called to the
men to gather their weapons so we could continue. I
purposely ignored the prickling along my skin that told me
Silas was staring at me. No doubt I'd shocked the man, or
angered him.

We resumed our trek, taking a narrow path a short ways

up the side of the volcanic mountain from which the island
had formed. When we reached the mouth of a cave, I
searched until I found one of the torches we used when I'd
come with Jack. One of my men struck a bit of tender and
with the torch flaming brightly, we descended into Jack's
cave.

The pitch from the torch filled the air, growing worse the

farther in we went. Tunnels led off in varying directions, but I
knew this way well.

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"Remember this, Ian. Don't ever forget."
"I promise I will remember."
"When I'm gone, you will be the only one with knowledge

of how to traverse these caverns."

The men whispered occasionally behind me, but the

moment we stepped into an open cavern, silence fell all
around us.

Dancing under the light of my torch, gold and jewels

sparkled, brilliant colors skittering along the walls and ceiling.
Three chests of gold coins, two chests of jewels. Various
trinkets and baubles filled another chest. Jack had been
successful in his day, one of the most feared ... and the most
loved.

I looked over to Silas. He stood silent as the grave, blue

eyes slowly taking in the sight before us. My men were much
the same, but finally pulled themselves out of their stupor,
hooting and hollering.

"Let's get it back to the ship, gentlemen," I called out, my

voice echoing within the rock walls. "Load them up, secure
them. Mr. McCrary will be waiting with boats to transport the
chests to the ship from the shore."

"Except that one." Silas walked over to a small niche in the

wall and picked up a box. He wiped layer after layer of grime
and dust from the top to reveal intricately-worked silver. "He
told me about this one..." He looked up at me. "...when he
told me about you, to come find you."

As the men worked to stash the coins and jewels into

chests, I went to Silas. "What is it?"

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He handed me the box. "Something he wanted you to

have, I think. Open it."

Brow creased in confusion, I sat on the stone floor and

opened the box. Papers. Letters. "What...?" I picked up the
one on the top and turned it over. Shock was the order of the
day, it seemed, when I saw my name scrawled across the
front. With unsteady hands, I opened the note, written on
yellowed parchment. The ink was faded but still readable.

"My dearest Ian,
I do not know if I will ever send this letter, if it will ever

see anyone's eyes but my own. But write it I must. Perhaps
by writing it, I can purge my soul, my heart, of the ache that
has taken residence within me.

My life is the sea, Ian. She always has been. I know I will

one day die and slip silently, peacefully, into her waiting
embrace.

But my heart ... ah, that is another matter, my friend. I

have had women and a few men throughout my life, even
fathered a son. But only one person has ever gotten through
to me in such a way as to possess my thoughts.

You.
Though you will likely never see this, know that you are

dearly loved, Ian. With all the heart this old sailor has left in
him.

Yours,
Jack
The paper fell from my hands, the knot in my throat

almost too much to bear. I didn't want to read anymore; I
couldn't. To know that he loved me was enough.

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A hand on my chin turned my head to face Silas and then

those lips were on mine, the kiss chaste, reverent, the words
'stay with me' breathed across my skin.

I had only to nod. Words were gone from me.

* * * *

After several hours, we had the chests loaded onto the

sloop, the silver box safely tucked away in the captain's
quarters. We set sail for the island of Espana Pequena, just to
the east of Jack's island. It was far enough south of Jamaica
to keep our heads from the hangman's rope, while still
affording us the luxury of a three days' sail to the big island
for supplies if needed. Espana Pequena or Little Spain, was a
small island with a fledgling port. No one knew me there,
though everyone knew Jack. It was the perfect place for a
man like myself to settle down, anonymously and
comfortably. We were a few hours out when Silas requested
my presence in the cabin. Leaving Mr. McCrary to the wheel, I
joined Silas below, closing the door and locking it to give us
privacy.

Silas took my hand and pulled me to the bunk, his other

hand working the buttons of his coat open. When we reached
the bunk, he turned to face me. I stepped up against him, lips
parted, wanting him, the ache welling inside me. Silas met
me, tongue slipping into my mouth, swallowing the sounds
we both made as we moved together. Tunneling my fingers
through his hair, I licked his lips, biting at the bottom one.
We broke the kiss, both of us panting, Silas' eyes wild, the
look heated.

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"It is easy to see why my father was besotted with you."

He reached up and touched my face, thumb sliding across my
kiss-swollen lips. At my look of confusion, he leaned in and
took another kiss. "You are a good man, Ian Bowers."

"I am simply myself," I answered. "And I am yours."
Silas did not question, did not ask for clarification. He'd

stolen my heart just as surely as he'd stolen my pistol. I
pushed his coat from his shoulders as he began on my pants,
our movements unhurried, our tongues dueling. It wasn't long
before we both were nude, skin pressing to skin, Silas' hands
buried in my hair. I gripped his hips, pulling our bodies
together, pressing our cocks along each other. One of us
gasped, though I was too lost to know which of us it had
been.

"I would taste you."
Silas tipped my head back and his mouth moved over my

skin. His breath was hot, his words searing. I offered no
protest—only my soul.

He turned me to face the bunk, then eased me to my

knees. I'd often put my tongue inside a man, but never
before had I felt it myself. A lesser man would have balked,
preached of unbecoming vulnerability; but what I felt the
moment Silas' tongue entered my body was far different. My
head resting on the bunk, I gasped and rocked, pushing back
to drive him deeper. I felt as if I were a banquet set before a
starving man as Silas plundered my depths with lips and
tongue. Two fingers soon joined, sure to drive me mad with
need for this man.

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"Ian..." Silas' lips pressed to the base of my spine and he

slowly rose up, body covering mine, fingers still deep inside
me.

"Aye," I whispered, turning my head just enough to see

him, to see the heat of desire in his eyes.

Silas withdrew his fingers and spent only a brief moment

preparing himself before he filled me. Hips flush with my
body, he rested on my back, kissing the space just between
my shoulders, at the base of my neck. Groaning, I shifted and
reached back with one hand, fingertips wrapping to his left
hipbone. Silas licked the sweat from my skin, withdrew, and
pushed back in, taking my breath away.

I was lost, the sounds pouring forth from me desperate,

pleading. Silas' movements were somewhere between gentle
and needing, not hard but not treating me as a man might
treat a woman. Gone, though, were the forceful thrusts of a
male rutting; every stroke he made secured my conviction
that this man had taken everything from me. And I'd willingly
given it.

A hand slipped beneath me and long fingers curled tight

around my cock, pulling in time to his movements. The world
faded, my eyes closing until there was nothing but the two of
us. Heat pooled in my groin, crawling slowly through my
body. Silas' panting breaths mingled with bites and kisses
along my neck and shoulders, driving us both closer to the
edge. Then he whispered a single word in my ear. "Yours."

The cry that left me was sharp and loud, my seed pouring

out over Silas' fist. Before the last of the tremors was gone,
he thrust deep inside me and spilled his own. Shaking and

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breathless, we remained there, the silence thick, almost
deafening. Had he really meant it?

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PART TWO
Two weeks passed and we found a comfortable cottage

overlooking the sea. I'd never quite thought to spend my
days as I had with Silas; not since his father left me years
before. Yet here I was, settling into domestic bliss with a man
whom I felt I'd known forever.

But the sea would not let me rest.
By the end of the second week, I was restless, unable to

sleep. I slipped out of our bed, careful not to wake Silas, and
dressed quietly. Wearing only trousers and a thin shirt, I left
the cottage and walked the short distance to the cliff edge. It
was a sheer drop to the crystal blue waters—and ragged,
deadly rocks.

Sitting with my legs drawn up and my chin resting on my

knees, I closed my eyes and simply listened. The sea called to
me, coaxing me from this serene life and back to the life I'd
left behind. I was torn—between shutting her out forever by
going to the mountains, or giving into her charms.

I'd no idea how long I sat there, but when warmth

surrounded me, I instinctively leaned back. Silas held me
close, chin on my shoulder, his breath as warm and
tantalizing as the ocean breeze.

"She is a formidable mistress."
I nodded. "That she is."
Silas kissed my neck softly. "You're not happy."
Sighing, I turned until I was on my knees, facing him.

"With you, yes. I am. But with this..." I waved a hand around.
"I'm lost, Silas. I don't belong here."

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He reclined back, propped on his elbows, thighs bracketing

my legs. I couldn't help but admire the youthful build, the
seductive expanse of smooth skin just barely visible beneath
the half-buttoned shirt. I forgot about the sea and leaned
forward, hovering just above him as I took his mouth in a
kiss. Silas shifted and I pressed him down onto his back, his
hands coming up to frame my face, fingers catching in my
hair to hold it from our faces.

"Love me," he whispered.
It was the first time the word had been uttered by either of

us, but I was inclined to take it as the request it was, and not
the sentiment I found myself longing to hear. Before I could
respond, and thus ruin the moment, I took him in another
kiss and worked a hand between us, unlacing his trousers.
When I finally touched skin, we both gasped.

Silas' cock felt like heated silk, the smooth skin sliding

along my palm. He groaned and arched his neck, hips rocking
into my touch. I descended on his throat, licking away the
sweat, the salt, shivering as the wind carried my name out to
the sea.

"Ian..."
I bit down and Silas cried out, body jerking. I strengthened

my grip on him, working the length. The foreskin moved over
the tip and I pinched it lightly, drawing a ragged moan from
my lover. Silas writhed and hooked his legs behind mine,
tugging me close to his body.

"Need you," he rumbled. "Show me I've not made your

mistake."

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That gave me pause and I blinked down at him, confused.

Silas smiled slowly and pushed up into my fist.

"Show me I haven't given my heart needlessly, Ian," he

whispered. "Show me that a love for me ... is greater than
your love for the sea."

The kiss that followed left us both gasping for breath—hard

and insistent, every ounce of our souls pouring into it, it
seemed. Silas rolled his hips and thrust upward. I released
him and sat back, pulling his trousers off with his help. Before
I could get my own off, however, he jerked me back down for
another heated kiss, full of hunger. I simply worked my pants
open and freed myself. Pulling back from the kiss, I only
made the most cursory of preparations, spitting into my palm
and stroking myself slick. Then I was sliding into heat so
perfect, it took my breath away.

"Ian!" Silas shouted and caught me with his legs again,

driving me deeper.

Taking his arms in hand, I pinned them above his head

and kissed him hard, thrusting as deep as I could. His moans
and grunts filled the kiss, and before long, he was shaking
beneath me, heat spreading between our stomachs. His body
clenched tight around me, I had only broken away long
enough for a quick breath and my climax crashed over me,
dragging me down with it.

We lay there for countless moments, content to touch and

kiss, whispers that weren't quite words passing over our lips.
It was then that I said the words I'd dared to tell his father...

"As God is my witness," I murmured against his hair, "I do

love you, Silas."

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Silas was quiet for a moment, then lifted my head. He

studied my face, stroked my lips with his fingertip. Then he
smiled. "Then I've not been a fool ... and given my heart
uselessly." He pulled my head closer, our lips barely touching.
"I love you."

* * * *

Morning brought a new day and a chance to become a new

man. I woke to find Silas gone, though his cap was on the
chair near the bed. He would not go to the town without his
cap, and so he had to be somewhere in the house. I got out
of bed and pulled on a pair of dark brown pants and my
boots. Even if he was not around this morning, I still had
chores to throw myself into. I was determined to make my
life as an honest man, and that began with finding a way to
endear myself to the locals without raising suspicion as to my
previous source of income.

After slipping on a thin shirt, I left our room and wandered

into the sitting room. The cottage was not large enough to
warrant a staff, nor was it too small as to seem stifling. Silas
was not in the sitting room, but just as I started for the front
door, I caught the rich aroma of pure English tea. Turning, I
found Silas sitting in the dining room, sipping at a cup. He
smiled from behind it.

Leaning against the doorframe, I regarded him, amused.

"And where did you find that?"

He shrugged. "You'd be surprised what one can find in a

port, even one as young as this."

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"I see." Smiling, I pushed off from the door and went to

him. I reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind
his left ear. "And what else have you found in this fledgling
port city?"

Silas set his cup down and tugged me onto his lap. "There

is a shop you might find interesting."

"Oh?" I leaned in and brushed his hair back, lips moving

over his jaw, toward his ear.

"Ian..."
My name was whispered, the sound barely audible even in

the silence of the house around us. I kissed lower, tongue
tracing a path down his throat. His breathing was shallow,
hands sliding over my back, then under my shirt.

"I can't think when you do that," he murmured, gasping

when I bit down on the juncture of neck and shoulder.

"You think too much, Silas." I tipped his head back and

took a kiss, Silas' groan filling my mouth. My shirt was
undone and pushed off my shoulders, then Silas began on my
pants. I broke the kiss and slid off his lap, stepping out of my
trousers.

Silas freed himself, stroking the length as he watched me.

"I am inclined to suggest that we keep oil in every room," he
said with a smirk.

"I would agree," I muttered, dropping to my knees, "but

for now..." I took him into my mouth, the salty taste familiar,
needed. Silas moaned my name, his fingers threading
through my hair to hold it back. I worked him over with lips
and tongue, wetting his flesh.

"Now, Ian."

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He tugged me back up and I straddled his thighs.

Positioning the tip at my entrance, he brought me down for
another kiss as his cock filled me slowly. The burn was
strong, intense, but as necessary as breathing. Only when he
was fully inside did I rock, causing him to slide out just a
fraction of an inch, every slow move grazing something deep
within me. Sparks skittered up my spine, taking my breath
away. I had no control over the sounds escaping my lips, the
erratic grinding of my body to his. With one hand, Silas
gripped my right hip, and with the other, he began stroking
me. Resting my forehead to his, our breaths mingled, the
sensations overwhelming.

"Silas..."
"Come for me, Ian," he whispered.
I threw my head back suddenly and cried out, hips jerking

as my seed pulsed over his fist. Seconds later, Silas followed,
fingers digging into my waist as his cock throbbed inside me.
Panting, I slumped against him, head on his shoulder. He
chuckled and kissed my hair.

"Now we can go into the city," I mumbled, though my

body was not interested in moving from its position.

Silas nodded. "I think you will like this shop."
"What is it?" I lifted my head to kiss him, then rose up to

let him slip out. I retrieved my shirt and cleaned us both,
knowing I would need to bathe before we went anywhere.

"It's..." Silas thought for a moment. "It's unique. Treasures

you would not find elsewhere."

I stopped just as I was lacing my pants. "What sort of

treasures?"

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He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "The sort one

would find if he were a pirate."

"Silas ... I'm not..." My protests, however transparent they

were, died out with the knowing look on his face. It seemed I
couldn't hide anything from this man. "I'd fully intended to
make myself an honest man."

"And you would spend your days being miserable." He

tucked himself back into his trousers and grinned. "Besides, it
is only a shop, Ian. What harm could there be in that?"

He was up to something.
"What is in your head?"
Silas' expression of shock would have been convincing,

had it not been for the spark in his eyes. As I'd made note to
observe before, he was every bit his father. I was in the
presence of a new generation of piracy, carried on by the son
of one of the most feared.

How could I say 'no'?
"Very well. We will go see your ... shop."
"I will have the carriage ready." He stood and kissed me,

then gave me a wink before leaving the house.

"One of us is mad," I muttered.
After a quick washing, I dressed and joined Silas out at the

small barn. He readied the carriage and once I was settled on
the seat beside him, we started for the city. The city folk
rambled along, most of them at a leisurely pace. No one paid
us any mind and when we reached the shop, I looked around
at our surroundings. We left the carriage near the front of a
tavern and walked the short distance down a narrow, empty
street.

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The shop, as it turned out, was nothing more than a niche

between two taverns. I initially thought Silas was jesting, but
when he opened an unmarked door and stepped aside, I
quickly realized he was quite serious. Stepping through that
door gave one the impression of stepping through time.

The ramshackle shop, which more resembled a large

closet, was near overflowing with all manner of artifacts new
and old. Platters and cups of silver and gold; brass sextants
fit for only the richest of vessels; trunks of dark wood,
banded in iron; and books everywhere. While I imagined
there was more, though less visible, I had to admit that the
treasures were unique for such a young port.

We browsed the shop and, curiously, were alone. I kept

glancing at a door near the back, but no one ever emerged.

"Ian," Silas whispered, "over here."
"What is it?"
I joined him near a shelf full of books, their dusty volumes

cracked and bearing cobwebs. Silas pulled one of the ancient
books from the shelf and leafed through it gently. For several
minutes, he didn't answer me, but then he finally stopped at
a faded, crudely drawn map. Then he tore the yellowed page
out of the book completely.

What in God's name...?"
"Shh..." He rolled the map and tucked it into his coat.

Nodding toward the door, he said, "Go now."

Eyes narrowed at him, I turned and left the shop as

casually as we'd entered it. Once we were outside and the
door was closed behind us, I spun around. "You knew it was
there!"

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Silas nodded. "I did." He grabbed my upper arm and

tugged me along, hurrying toward one of the abandoned
buildings behind the central cluster of businesses. Gaping like
a fish, I had no choice but to go along with his rather dubious
plan.

"All right," I said once we got into a place with relative

privacy. "What is it?"

Grinning, Silas pulled the map out and unrolled it over a

stack of grain sacks. "You've heard of the French pirate Jean
Florin, yes?"

"Of course."
"This..." Silas tapped the map, "is the map to one of his

hidden troves."

Standing back, arms crossed, I regarded Silas

disbelievingly. "Florin did not have a trove."

"Ah-ha!" Silas waggled a finger at me. "That, my dear

Captain Bowers, is where you are wrong."

"I'm listening, Silas," I answered, lowering my voice when

I heard men outside, loading up a cart with goods from
another storehouse.

"Before he was put to death, Captain Florin seized a trio of

Spanish ships on their voyage back to Spain. Each one carried
wealth beyond your imagining."

"I have a very good imagination," I remarked.
Silas rolled his eyes. "Intent on keeping a good deal back

for himself, Captain Florin loaded two chests with gold and
jewels. He then buried it on an island he'd found two years
before. This map..." He tapped it again.

"...tells the exact location."

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"If this is such a secret, then why is it in a book?"
Silas rolled the map once more. "Because no one knows

what this map is. There is a watermark, denoting the island
itself."

"Wait." I held up a hand to stop him from further

explanation. "How do you know any of this? How did you
know about the map, or what book to find it in?"

The smile that followed was at once bright and wicked.

"Because my father served a time as Florin's First Mate."

"Jack drew the map?"
Silas nodded slowly, tucking the map back into his coat.

"He did, and in one of his last letters to me, he detailed the
whereabouts of the book in which he bound it."

"And we...?" I asked as he began to advance on me.
"We..." A finger traced down the 'v' of my collar. "...are

going to retrieve the French captain's treasure."

"You're mad," I whispered.
"Aye." Silas' lips moved over mine, coaxing, coercing. "And

you cannot deny that you want to do this."

I didn't have a chance to answer him for his tongue

plunged into my mouth, stealing what little resistance I had
left. He was correct in his assumption that I could not deny it.
And I didn't have to say a word.

* * * *

"Are you certain they will go with you?"
"They did the last time, did they not?"

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Silas stopped, the tug on my shirt sleeve halting me as

well. His gaze narrowed. "You will not lock me in a room
again."

I grinned. "Only if I am in the room with you. You have my

word."

He released me and smirked. "Very well. After you,

Captain Bowers."

We found a table in a darkened corner and settled down.

Silas went to fetch us a bottle of rum and I watched him. An
older man approached him and when he leaned in to whisper
something to Silas, Silas nodded. Turning slightly, Silas
inclined his head toward our table. The man looked at him,
then at me, before finally making his way over.

"Looking for a few men, ar' ye?"
"Might be." I nodded to the chair across from me as Silas

sat to my right, putting the bottle in the center. "Please, have
a seat."

Although he regarded me dubiously, our drinking

companion took the offered seat. "Name's Raul Pierre." A
hand, sun-dark and leathery, was extended.

"Pleasure, Mr. Pierre." I shook his hand, then continued as

Silas did the same. "French?"

Raul nodded. "Aye."
"You speak fluent English, and your accent is not easy to

place."

Raul sat back, looking quite at ease. "Been here for some

years. Sailed before that."

"Sailed." Silas leaned forward and lowered his voice. "With

whom?"

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I busied myself with mouthfuls of rum, curiosity piqued.
"Jean Florin."
Silas glanced at me, and I at him. Well, what a small world

this seemed.

"How did you know that we are looking for a crew?" I

asked him, taking another swallow.

Raul grinned. "Ye got that look about you," he said. "You

and your companion ... you are not here to simply sample the
rum."

"You've got us there." I took another swallow, then handed

the bottle to Silas. "We're looking to replace some of our
crew. They left when we made port two weeks ago."

"And the pay?"
"Taken care of," Silas said. He pulled a small purse from

his coat and tossed it at Raul. "Consider that a bonus. More
will come if you decide to enlist with us."

Raul's attention turned to Silas. "And what of you, sir? Do

your men serve two captains?"

"Of a sort," I said quietly, fixing a steady gaze on Raul.
He looked from me, to Silas, then back to me, a grin

spreading slowly across his face. "Good thing about this line
of business," he said, kicking his feet up on the far end of the
table and tipping his chair back precariously. "Buggery is not
the heinous crime those with steady women make it out to
be."

"Indeed." Silas' hand discreetly slipped under the table,

fingers dancing slowly, lightly, over the top of my inner thigh.
"What say you, Mr. Pierre?"

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"I say..." He paused, as if for impact. "Aye. I'll sail with ye.

I've a few others that might be ... persuaded..." He eyed the
purse purposely. "...to join as well."

"Very well. The ship is Marie's Fortune, docked in the south

of the harbor. We have purchased the provisions and they
have been delivered to the ship." I stood and shook Raul's
hand. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Pierre."

"Aye, thank ye." He nodded to us both, then turned and

left. At least eight other men, all equally hardy, followed
behind him.

"Well, that was easy enough," Silas remarked as we

started out. He slid his hand into a pocket in his coat, then
stopped suddenly. When I turned, the color had drained from
his face. "The map."

"What?"
"It's gone!" He spun around and nearly ran back to the

table. "Ian! It's not here!"

Just as I started toward him, a low, growly voice stopped

me cold.

"Well, what 'av we 'ere?"
Looking up, I found myself face to face with a man I knew

I had no chance of fighting. He must have outweighed me by
half my weight alone. He had our map, unrolled, peering at it
intently.

"Thank you, good sir," Silas said. He reached out, but the

man refused to relinquish the map.

"Now what ye be needin' this for? A trade, perhaps? Or a

cut? That was a mighty bit ye gave Mr. Pierre."

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We were outmanned, but certainly not outwitted. In times

of desperation, a man's ability to reason—to react rationally—
can be stilted, or nonexistent altogether. That was the only
explanation for what we did.

Within the span of a few seconds, Silas had the map in

hand, while I ... had my mouth on our adversary's.

The element of surprise barely saved our skins. Before the

poor man came to his senses, Silas and I were out the door
and halfway to the docks, running for our lives. Before long,
we heard men behind us, shouting and running, curses flying
as fast as their feet. When we spotted the ship, I began
shouting as well.

"Raise the anchor! Make sail!"
An angry mob rounded the corner, yelling all manner of

crude accusations. Most of them would have been true in
other circumstances, but debating the best positions in
buggery was not on the agenda, I feared. McCrary's face went
slack and he began bellowing orders to hasten the crew.

I went first, leaping off the dock to catch the rope ladder.

Silas followed, one hand grasping the end of a dangling
mooring line. After several attempts, I finally caught hold of
his left hand, in which the map was clutched tightly, and the
crew started hoisting us up. The mob skidded to a collective
halt at the end of the dock and just as Silas and I were pulled
over the side, pistols were fired into the ship's hull. Silas and
I had barely enough air in our lungs to breathe, but all we
could do was laugh our damned fool heads off.

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From where we lay, sprawled out on the deck, I finally

pulled myself under control and said, "Mr. McCrary, set us a
course due northeast."

"Aye, Cap'n."
I stood first and offered a hand to Silas. Looking around, I

noted that the newest additions to the crew, including one
Raul Pierre, seemed to be getting along well. Nodding in
approval, Silas glanced at me and grinned.

"What say we return to our cabin?" he said, the smile

growing and slowly turning wicked.

"Aye, Mr. Christian. That sounds like a fine idea." Waving a

hand before me, I waited until Silas started for the captain's
quarters, then followed behind, content with the view.

Once in the cabin, I closed the door behind us, locking it

securely. Silas set the map on the desk and found the rum in
a drawer. He took a long swallow, blue eyes fixed on me,
gaze intent. As he lowered the bottle, he licked away a few
stray drops of rum from his lips.

"Where is your oil, Mr. Christian?"
Silas turned and went to the bunk. Retrieving the bottle

from the ledge, he held it up and shook it a little. "Did you
have something in mind?"

"I do," I answered, nodding as I began undressing. I

watched Silas follow suit, and when we were both nude, I
went to him. Sliding my hands up his body, I found myself
wanting to touch him everywhere—with hands and lips and
tongue, all before I sank my cock into him.

"What would you have of me, Ian?" His whisper brushed

my ear, teeth nipping lightly.

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"On the bunk, on your stomach."
I almost mourned the loss of his heat when he stepped

away, but then he turned and crawled onto the bed, body
beckoning. I bit back the groan and picked up the oil, then
straddled his thighs. Uncapping the bottle, I poured a
generous amount on to Silas' back. Silas shifted slightly and I
set the bottle aside. With the expanse of his skin calling to
me, I began rubbing the oil into his skin.

Starting at his shoulders, I kneaded and squeezed,

working the muscles of his shoulders and upper arms. The
tension melted away beneath my fingers, Silas all but sinking
lower into the bed. He might have whispered my name, or
perhaps it was simply a breathy groan when I found a knot
and applied pressure to ease it. My position was precarious,
my cock nestled just beneath his buttocks, the tip seeming to
search its way without my help.

I continued down his back, rubbing his sides, mesmerized

by the sheen of the oil on his skin. When I reached his lower
back, I scooted farther down his legs, never stopping the
movements of my hands on him. Silas moved a little and I
swore his back arched, pushing him against me. I was
enjoying my ministrations too much, however, to enter him
just yet.

Working my hands lower, I plied his buttocks, parting

them occasionally to catch a glimpse of that hole. I wanted
inside, but I stopped myself from taking him. By the time I
entered him, I wanted Silas shaking with need.

"Ian..."

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I spread him open again, my mouth watering. I stopped

long enough to get the oil and separate his buttocks, then
poured a bit down his crease. After setting the bottle aside
again, I rubbed the oil into him, slipping two fingers inside.
Silas groaned and I pushed my fingers deeper. I needed this.
We both did.

Adding a third finger, I leaned over Silas' back, bracing

myself with my other hand. I kissed his shoulder and just as
he turned his head to meet me in a kiss, I withdrew my
fingers and entered him fully. Silas' moan filled the kiss, his
lips sealing around my tongue to draw it into his mouth as
surely as his body drew in my cock.

Breaking the kiss, I sat back up and ran my hands down

his body. He stretched beneath me, thighs spreading as much
as they could. I parted his buttocks and began with slow,
shallow strokes, loving the sight of my cock sliding into him.
Silas moaned and tried to meet me, but finally gave up.

"Ian. Now."
Unable to ignore the plea in his voice, I held him open and

rocked, pushing deeper with every thrust. The sight of that
tight skin gripping me made my head spin, made me feel like
a god. I released him and hovered over him, giving into the
urge to take him completely. Heat stroked my flesh over and
over, Silas' moans and grunts spurring me on. He tried to
spread his legs again and this time I let him, settling between
them. A hand on each hip, I rocked back and pulled him up
with me until Silas was sitting on my erection. He turned his
head just enough for a kiss and I took his mouth, swallowing
the cries when I wrapped my fingers around his leaking shaft.

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It took only three strokes and Silas bucked, hips slamming

forward, then back onto me as his seed pulsed hot over my
fist. His body clamped tight around my cock and I plunged
back in as deep as I could, shuddering out my release.

Breathless, Silas went back down face-first onto the bunk.

I slipped out and reached down for my shirt. After wiping us
both, I stretched out—half beside him, half on top of him—
and ran my fingers up and down his spine, slick with sweat
and oil. Several moments passed in silence until Silas' voice
broke it.

"May I ask you a question?"
I turned until I could see his face, those blue eyes serious.

"Anything."

His gaze never wavered from mine, and Silas drew in a

slow, deep breath. "Are you with me because you loved my
father?"

"No." I reached out and tucked a fallen bit of hair behind

his ear. "I will admit that it might have been a factor at the
start; that I hoped to feel something of him with you."

"And now?" Silas smiled, though it didn't quite reach his

eyes.

I returned the smile and managed to get him turned

enough to face me fully without rolling him clear off the
narrow bunk. "Now ... I know you, Silas. I think..." I took a
deep breath and let it out slowly. "I think, with your father's
letters, I've made my peace. You've not walked away to
follow a love that I could never compete with. With Jack, I
had the sea as my rival, and she is a mistress no man could
hope to come before."

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"Will you put me aside for her?"
Leaning in for a kiss, I whispered, "No. I will bring you with

me."

"I am no pirate," Silas murmured, the words muffled when

our mouths came together again.

I trailed kisses down his jaw and Silas tipped his head to

give me access. "Maybe not, but you are mine, irregardless of
that fact." I continued lower, lips sealing around the skin
covering his collarbone, and drew up a dark red mark.

"Branding me now, Captain?" Silas groaned softly, shifted

until I was lying atop him.

"Aye."
I slithered down his body and swirled my tongue around

his left nipple, teeth grazing the tiny bit of flesh. Silas hissed
and bucked, hands going to my head to wrap in my hair. I
worried the nub with my teeth, rolling and tugging it until
Silas was writhing beneath me. When I finally released him,
he gasped and, gripping my head, pulled me up and into a
kiss. Situating myself between his legs, I rocked and pushed,
our cocks hard, sliding along each other. I bracketed Silas'
face between my hands and kissed him until we were forced
to part for breath.

"Silas..."
"Don't stop," he panted, hips lifting. "Ian."
Lowering my head, I found the sensitive spot just at the

nape of his neck and sucked up another dark mark. Silas
shouted, body bowing, heat spraying between us. With a
groan and a glide of my cock alongside his, I tumbled over

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right behind him, grunting out my release as it added to
Silas'.

We stayed there for several minutes, working to catch our

breath. I rolled over onto my side and Silas peered down at
his stomach, grimacing. I chuckled and kissed him, then
crawled over him and out of the bunk. After wiping myself off
with my shirt once more, I tossed the soiled blouse to him.

Catching it, he laughed. "I fear this thing has seen its last."

He cleaned himself as best he could and dropped the shirt to
the floor. "Shall we have a better look at our map?"

I nodded as I dressed, pulling on my pants and rummaging

in my trunk for another shirt. "I'd rather keep the map
between us."

Silas sat up, though he didn't move from where he sat on

the edge of the bunk. "I understand. Trustworthy is the last
word I'd use in reference to the crew."

"You are not a pirate," I said with a chuckle. "Though you

are wise to not trust them."

"You've already established that you do not."
"That is quite true." I sat down at the desk and unrolled

the map, securing opposite corners with Silas' pistol and the
rum bottle. "Where is this supposed watermark?"

"It's a form of invisible ink," Silas said as he stood. Caring

little that he was still unclothed, he walked over, picked up
the map, and held it to the window. The sunlight shone
through the paper and, much to my surprise, the image of an
island, just north of our home port, grew visible.

"I'll send word for us to change our course."

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"Aye." Silas glanced back at me and grinned. "We've a few

days' at sea before we reach the island."

Pulling him close for another kiss, I whispered, "Oh, I'm

sure we can find ways to bide the time."

"Mmmhmm..." Silas kissed me again, then released me.
I sat and pulled on my boots, then strapped my belt on,

sliding the cutlass into its sheath. Once on deck, I went up to
the wheel, taking it from McCrary. "We're sailing north-
northwest."

"Aye, Cap'n." McCrary jumped down to the deck and joined

the men.

Silas came up a few minutes later and stood at the wheel

with me, hand on my shoulder. "I never thought I'd be doing
this."

"What?"
"Taking up as a pirate."
Looking over my shoulder at him, I lifted an eyebrow. "It is

not a far cry from what you did before."

Silas shrugged. "I'd never intended to do that for the rest

of my life, either."

I turned back to look out over the blue ocean stretching

out before us. "Believe me when I say that you will not do
this for the rest of your life. It's a wonder I've survived this
long, let alone the long lives of some of our men. It's a
dangerous trade, and we do not cheat death. We simply try to
stay one step ahead of it."

"And what happens when the time comes to end all this?"

Silas swept his arm out. "Do you finally settle down?"

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It took a moment for me to answer that question, as I

really didn't know how to answer it at all. I'd never really
thought about it. Even when we found the cottage, I never
quite accepted that my life upon the seas was truly over.
There was always the urge to get back to the wheel, to reap
the rewards—however ill-gained.

"I don't know," I said quietly. Looking over at Silas, I saw

him nod sagely, gaze taking in the sea.

"I never intended to pull you away, Ian."
"I know, and you didn't, Silas. I made that choice myself,

and I lived with it."

He went to the rail and rested on it, arms folded for

support. "I would not have paid my father's letters about
Captain Florin any heed had I not felt guilty."

"Guilty? Silas, you've no reason to feel guilty. I told you: it

was my decision. And I gave it my best, but I suppose I'm
just not suited for settling down, at least not on land."

"Were you serious about keeping me with you?" He turned

and leaned back, arms crossed.

"Of course, I was. Do you think I was not?"
Silas smiled and shook his head. "No, of course not." He

pushed away from the rail and came up to stand close to me.
"Are you hungry?"

"Aye. McCrary!"
The old man ambled up the steps and took the wheel with

only a nod. Silas and I went back down to the captain's
quarters and a few moments later, the cook stuck his head in
the door.

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"We'll take our meal now," I told him. The cook left and I

closed the door, giving Silas and myself a bit of privacy until
our food arrived.

Silas sat behind the desk, kicking his booted feet up onto a

corner. "So when we find Florin's gold, what is the next step
for Captain Bowers and his rogue lover?" His grin was
infectious and I couldn't help but return it.

Sitting on the edge beside his feet, I trailed a finger over

the dusty, cracked leather of his boots. "I don't know. We
continue on, I suppose."

"Until...?"
"Until the sea comes to claim what is hers."
A knock sounded on the door and I went to answer it.

Taking the tray and the bottle of wine from the cook, I
pushed the door closed with my foot before setting the tray
on the desk. Silas dropped his feet to the floor and reached
over, tearing off a piece of the crusted bread. Content with
the wine and an apple, I sat on the bunk and leaned back,
half eating and half watching Silas.

"What do you plan on doing with your share, Ian?" Silas

tore off another piece of bread, and after that was gone, he
started on an apple.

I thought about it, realizing that I'd never considered what

I might do. "I don't know. Save a good bit, I imagine, so that
we have something when we return to our cottage. What
about you?"

"Hmm..." Silas tilted his head, brow knitting in deep

thought. "I've a mind to return home, show you the lands of
my forefathers."

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One eyebrow rose and I stared at him. "Home? To

England? And what if we are recognized as the thieves we
are?"

Taking a bite of his apple, Silas chewed, remaining silent

for a moment. "When I took to my rather unsavory way of
life, I did not do it near my family's lands. Nor did I go
without concealment. My face—as a brigand—has never been
seen."

"And your mother? What if she were to find out you were

back, with a man, no less?"

Silas laughed, though I did not detect much humor in it.

"By now, I think, she no longer cares. My mother was aging
when I left; I would be surprised if she still lives."

"You were not close, then?"
He snorted and shook his head. "Hardly. I was a thorn in

her side, a bastard son she was more than happy to rid
herself of."

I could not blame him for the touch of venom I heard in

his words. I myself was never overly close to either of my
parents. At that point in my life, I had no knowledge of
whether they were dead or alive, and truthfully, I simply no
longer cared.

We finished off our meal in companionable silence, and left

the rest in favor of each other. The longer I was with Silas,
the more I wanted him. His was a taste that I craved,
needed. Standing, I set the rum bottle on the desk and
straddled Silas' thighs while he remained in the chair. The
sweetness of the apple clung to his lips, and I could not stop
myself from sucking his tongue into my mouth. Pushing my

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fingers back through his hair, I tipped his head back and
deepened the kiss.

Silas groaned and his fingers dug into my hips, pulling our

bodies harder together. Too entranced by the myriad of
flavors, I was little help in getting us undressed. One of Silas'
hands left my hip and he fumbled with the enclosures to our
pants, freeing us both. Then those long fingers wrapped tight
around our shafts, Silas' grip strong as he began stroking us
both.

I grunted and broke the kiss, angling his head to the side

until I found the mark I'd made before. Sealing my lips
around it, the bruise beginning to purple, I bit down, hissing
when Silas' thumb pressed into my slit.

"Ian!" Silas shouted, the sound as rough as his hold on our

cocks.

I lost all semblance of control, rocking and bucking, heat

crawling through my body in quick, steady waves. I was on
the edge, ready to fall over into oblivion. One more stroke,
one more probe of Silas' fingertip into the head, and my
breath and mind left me, pouring out of my body in thick,
white streams.

His movements sped up and Silas dug the fingers of his

other hand into my hip, hard enough to bruise. I heard my
name twisted in a growl and Silas jerked, hips snapping up
under me as he came.

It took a good while for us to regain our senses enough to

even move. We'd made quite a mess, something we were
developing a habit for. Grinning, Silas licked the seed from his
hand, which only threatened to reawaken my cock. I simply

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shook my head and slid off his lap, retrieving the otherwise-
useless shirt that still lay on the floor by the bunk. When we
were both clean and tucked back into our pants, we left the
cabin and I took the wheel once more.

"I would like to see your family's lands," I said, smiling

over at Silas.

"Then, my dear Captain Bowers, we shall."
Before us, the sea stretched on forever. I knew then that

Jack had done me a favor by leaving me for her. In his son,
I'd found a companion and a lover, and that was enough to
drag this old sailor away from the blue waters forever.

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Of Boats and Blue Beards
By Willa Okati
Chapter One
Christopher, better known as "Kit" to those he called

friends, stood in front of the solid oak door to his uncle's
study and straightened his cravat. He knew it was poorly tied
and would make quite the spectacle if he were to venture out
in public, but despite Uncle's decision that a valet was too
costly for "the likes of him", he insisted on Kit's observing the
niceties of a gentleman. The damned neck-cloth was about to
choke him about the throat, while hanging too loose below.

Still, he'd done the best he could. And he didn't plan to

keep the blasted thing on for long. All he needed was to face
his uncle this one last time, and he'd be free.

Free to go after his heart's desire ... or what came in

second place, since what he wanted most had vanished in the
seas several months gone, with nothing sent back but word of
his death. Uncle had been relieved. He'd forbidden Kit to
mourn, of course, but Kit obeyed only on the exterior.

Inside, he grieved every night for his lost David.
"Just one voyage," David insisted, toying with the light

dusting of hair on Kit's chest. They lay naked together in
David's bed for the safety of them both, Kit's uncle having far
too many eyes and ears for anyone's good. It wasn't a very
good bed, the stuffing having gone flat and the linen sheets
well-frayed from being washed too many times, the rope
supports giving little snaps of warning each time they moved,
but it suited them.

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It was, after all, the place where they came together.
Kit finger-walked his own hand up David's broad chest,

counting off each muscle and stopping to circle one flat brown
nipple with his forefinger. "I don't trust the seas," he'd said,
not looking up. He couldn't quite bear to look David in the
face, quashing his dreams as he was. "There are too many
things out there for my peace of mind. Shipwrecks, scurvy,
pirates..."

David laughed, his body shaking with the force of it—they

had no worries about anyone hearing or caring about them in
David's tumbledown dwelling. He'd appropriated the place, an
old barn, after the stable master gave up trying to sell skinny
mares and slump-backed geldings and moved out. The place
still smelled of hay and horseflesh, tempered with the rich
musky scent of two males in rut.

They'd just finished making love, but Kit found himself

eager, as always, to go again. He was young and strong, his
cock eager at the slightest provocation, and David an
irresistible temptation. He moved closer so that David would
be able to feel the swelling of his manhood between the two
of them, made a hungry sound, and kissed his lover on the
round cap of his shoulder. Licking an intricate path between
the freckles there, he made a purring sound and chuckled
when David did.

"You're a sweet one when the mood's on you," David said,

nestling comfortably on his back. Kit followed, pressing kisses
on his chest. He tongued one nipple into his mouth and then
bit lightly.

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David gasped. "I know full well what you're trying to do,

and it won't work," he said as firmly as a man could in his
position. "One voyage, Kit. I've already put up the capital to
invest in the venture."

"Then stay here on land, and let your profits mature

without you there."

"No, no." David caught Kit's head with one broad hand and

held it still. Kit paused over the nipple he'd been lavishing
attention on, then sighed, his breath stirring the springy
hairs. "Look, Kit, it's not as if I won't miss you. But I need to
be on board to ensure that my goods are safe."

"Pay someone to do it for you."
"Love, no. I must go. I've given my word."
Kit sat up, gathering the thin sheet around himself. He

gazed down at David, the gentle giant who'd won his heart
from their first meeting over a game of cards, and drank in
the sight of his lover from his sparkling green eyes to the
thick thatch of his beard to his broad shoulders and tapering
chest. He didn't reach for David's cock, even though it had
grown half-full again. "Promise me, then," he said, seizing
David's hand in his own. "Stay safe out on the waters, and
come back to me again."

David grinned, teeth flashing white in his dusky face. "A

promise easily kept," he said as if it were already a thing
accomplished. "Now come here and kiss me again. We've
time for one more round before you must leave."

"Damn Uncle for his suspicious nature. If he tolerated my

having male friends, or even carousing like a young buck is
expected to, we wouldn't have to sneak around so."

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"Forget about your uncle. Think about us, lover. I've got a

fancy to feel that sweet mouth of yours wrapped around my
cock." David squeezed Kit's hand. His gaze danced. "Do you
think you could force yourself to the task?"

"We'll see who forces who," Kit murmured, slipping down

the bed and seizing David's cock in a firm grip, his mouth
already watering for the salty, bitter taste of his lover's come
on his tongue...

"Sir? Excuse me, sir?"
Kit came out of his reverie to see a young serving maid

carrying a basket full of sheets, nervously eyeing him up and
down. "Yes?" he asked distantly, his mind still hazy and full of
images from the long past. "Did you need something?"

The maid dipped a curtsy. "Begging your pardon, but

that's what I was asking you, sir. You seemed a bit stunned,
standing there. I wondered if you were well."

The urge to snap at her was strong, but Kit resisted. The

maid was out of line, but who was he to talk about proper
manners? He felt sure she'd get a dressing-down from the
housekeeper when she heard about this, and any maid so fair
of face deserved better. He felt absolutely no sense of interest
in her, which had perhaps been what she was hoping for, but
did soften his demeanor. "It's nothing, Sally. Go along now.
I'm here to visit Uncle on his summons."

Sally dipped her head again. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I'll

be on my way."

"Good girl," Kit said absently. He tugged at his cravat

again, wishing he could just unravel the knot and toss the
damned thing aside, then raised his fist to knock.

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Before his knuckles could strike the wood, however, he

heard an irate voice creaking from inside. "Kit! Is that you,
lad? Come in and don't stand about dawdling all day. I've
business to take care of."

Yes, business. It was always business with Uncle, no

matter the season or situation. He had his finger in every pie,
even if he were no longer a Governor, and kept his eye on
every single thing that happened in their small cape town of
St. Germaine.

Instead of responding, Kit lifted the latch on the heavy oak

door and pushed the thing open with a bit of effort. He
suspected that Uncle enjoyed watching men struggle a bit
when they first came to see him—a way of getting the first
leg up, so to speak. Kit's arm was strong enough to handle
the door without much effort, but all the same he did have to
push, and the smile on his uncle's face was smugly
insufferable.

A fat man, his belly bulging out over his lap, he leaned

back in the padded horsehair chair he'd had specially made
for his dimensions and tented his hands across his corpulent
chest. "Kit," he said, his disapproval clear. "Have you not yet
learned how to tie a cravat? You can't go out into the town
dressed like this."

Kit closed the door behind himself, schooling his face into a

bland, mildly pleasant expression that hid his inner fury, then
turned around. His uncle looked like nothing so much as a
carrion beast, primed and ready to pounce on the next
carcass in his path. The man's small eyes gleamed with an
unholy glee as he zeroed in on Kit. "You'll practice with that

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cravat until you've learned it properly," he said in a second
volley. "It's been a full year. You should have learned by now.
A boy of twenty and one years not knowing such a thing yet?
Shameful."

"Yes, Uncle," Kit said calmly, keeping his gaze level on the

man's piggy face.

Plump lips screwed up in disgust as the man ran his eyes

over Kit. "You're a disgrace. Bare-headed, hardly dressed as
befits a man of your station, and if rumor serves, still as
much of a rapscallion as ever you were when I foolishly gave
you more freedom."

Kit stilled. "Rumors, sir?"
"Oh, yes." His uncle picked up a piece of writing-paper,

thickly written in both directions, and scanned a line. "You
were spotted last night at a tavern in town. We can only be
grateful that you kept to yourself. If I'd heard you'd been
engaging in your particular lewd perversions again, I'd have
you pilloried myself." He dropped the paper. "Well, boy? Not
wondering why I called you in here?"

Kit took a moment to look around the room. Everywhere

he looked there were messages and missives, both local and
from around the globe. Each one whispered secrets best kept
hidden into Uncle's ears. The small bit of light that filtered in
through the shutters on Uncle's window was choked with
motes of dust. Each wall had a small painting firmly in place,
none of them cleaned in ages. Uncle allowed no one in that
room except Kit, and then to trounce him. Uncle's wife and
his six children, all girls, none of whom had survived their
tenth year. The woman unfortunate enough to marry Uncle

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had died not long after the passing of her last. Not that Uncle
had cared. He'd had a family for the looks of things and in the
hopes of a son, though it was unlikely he'd have let that
unfortunate heir have any more freedom to roam than Kit.

Of course, Kit knew he was a unique trial in his uncle's

eyes. If not for the terms of his father's will, his mother's
brother would never have taken in a frightened fourteen-
year-old. His father's will and the bulk of his monies as Kit's
inheritance—every coin of which had vanished into Uncle's
coffers for "safekeeping". Kit hadn't been surprised on his
twenty-first birthday to be informed that the money had all
been invested, and that his uncle was looking after several
financial matters—all while the money was tucked away in
that old rapscallion's purse, no doubt.

He could have left, then. Penniless he would have been,

but there were ways and ways for a young man to earn
money enough to live on. He might have eventually traveled
to London for the sights, or Paris for the free and easy
lifestyle he'd heard so much about. If David hadn't gone on
that fatal voyage, they might have...

But no. Now wouldn't be the time for dreams, not when

Uncle was staring him down, ready to jump on the slightest
little thing. "Well?" he repeated. "No questions? Not curious in
the least about why you're here?"

Kit remained externally calm. "I trust you to speak in your

own due time," he said, hating the obedient tone of his
words. "Until then, I am content to wait upon your leisure,
Uncle."

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"Hunh." Uncle grunted. "You don't think being spotted out

on the town is enough reason for me to rake you across the
coals? You know the terms of our agreement."

Kit did, just as if they'd been seared into his heart. No

more fraternizing with young men of any sort, much less
getting involved with one. Uncle had promised to hang Kit
from the nearest tree himself if there was ever another breath
that hinted of sodomy. In return for his safety, he served as
his Uncle's laborer of all trades, doing everything from
carrying letters to greeting visitors. "I remember," he said
with a nod of his head. "I apologize for last night. I merely
wanted a quiet drink."

"In the rowdiest tavern this town possesses?" His uncle

lifted a heavy cane resting by his hand and aimed a blow at
Kit's legs. The impact stung like fire, but Kit managed to keep
himself from buckling. "You're a fool ten times over. I should
turn you out of this house."

Oh, yes, but then who would you have to be your slave? If

you hadn't found out about David and myself ... "I beg your
pardon, Uncle." Kit stood up, straight-backed, ignoring the
searing pain in his thigh where the cane had struck. He did
not say he would be pleased to wait upon his uncle's
command. Instead he stood with his eyes focused on the
porkish man. If this was a game, Uncle would find out that Kit
could wait as long as himself.

Uncle gave him a narrow-eyed look, then grunted again,

sounding exactly like a sow rooting in a trough of table
leavings. He heaved his bulk forward in the chair, which
creaked under his weight, and shuffled through the papers on

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his desk. "There'll be a ship coming in the afternoon," he
announced without glancing back up at Kit. "A merchant ship,
the Lady Mary. There'll be some cargo belonging to me. See
that it's unloaded properly and sent to the correct
destination."

Kit's spine prickled with interest. "Do you trust me to go

down to the docks alone, Uncle?"

His uncle snorted. "Do I? By God, no. But you're all I have.

Besides, look at this as a chance to prove yourself. If you do
a good enough job, you may find your way back into my good
graces again."

Kit highly doubted that, but nodded all the same. For good

measure, he added, "Yes, Uncle."

"Dress in plain clothes," his uncle ordered him. "I won't

have you soiling any of the good garments I've paid for.
There should be rags aplenty in the storage room. They'll do
to keep you covered."

"Will the ship's Captain accept any orders from a seeming

beggar?"

The second blow of Uncle's cane came too quickly for Kit to

be prepared. He gave a low cry and bent over the injury to
his hip, knowing that he'd be both bruised and limping for the
next day or so. "Insolent boy!" Uncle hissed. "You'll do what I
say as I tell you. Otherwise, I have many a secret that'll spell
the end of you."

Kit's anger spilled out. "And what will happen to you, when

the fine townsfolk discover you didn't have me hanged at
once?"

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"I won't have known a thing until certain word reached my

ears." Uncle lowered his cane. Using it to support his weight,
as he was much troubled with the gout, he heaved himself
upright and stood glaring up at Kit. Kit topped him by several
inches, something Uncle resented fiercely. "You'll do this job
for me, boy," he ordered, shoving one fatly segmented
forefinger into Kit's chest. Poking at him like a side of meat.
"You'll do whatever I say, because you've no choice in the
matter. Not unless you want a quick drop and a short stop.
Are we clear?"

Kit fought against the pain and managed to give his uncle

a stiff nod. "We are clear, sir," he replied. "Do you require
anything else?"

"The pleasure of your absence." Uncle stumped around to

the side of his desk. "Get you gone. I don't expect to see your
face again until you have a bill of lading ready for my
inspection."

"Good day to you, then." Kit limped backwards and tugged

the heavy oak door open again. He refused to say thank you,
although he knew his uncle was waiting for the words. Their
lack earned him another glare, but apparently Uncle didn't
think he was worth wasting any more words over.

Kit shut the door behind him and stood in the hallway for a

moment, allowing himself to ride out the wave of pain in his
hip and thigh. He had no doubt that Uncle enjoyed striking
him just to see how he would react. This wasn't the first time
he'd been on the receiving end of that cane.

After Uncle had found out about Kit's involvement with

David through one of his spies ... well, Kit counted himself

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lucky that he hadn't been crippled for life. As it had been,
he'd struggled for months with the ache of broken ribs and
worried that his broken wrist might never heal. Even now, it
gave him twinges whenever the wind changed.

The depth of his uncle's plan went further than beating Kit

into submission. The man wouldn't be satisfied until he'd
wrung every useful drop out of his nephew, and would then
have him quietly killed, his body sunk into deep waters. He'd
pretend to grieve, but only in the public eye. For the most
part, though, he'd stay locked up in his chamber, reading
over the missives he received every day, making sure that his
... business ... proceeded as usual. Letters from ships coming,
ships going, and the affairs of the town. People would pretend
to support him in the grief of losing a nephew, but only for
the show of things. Inside, they would still be as afraid of the
corpulent tyrant as if he were King Henry of old.

Kit knew he couldn't look to anyone for help—had known

for some time, in point of fact. If he was ever going to find his
way out of the noose Uncle had balanced around his neck, he
would have to make his own luck.

Uncle had, all unknowingly, given him the keys to that

freedom.

His beloved David had been lost at sea. Kit wanted nothing

more than to lose himself in those briny waters. Without his
love, what else did he have to live for?

He'd dress himself as a poor man, all right. Dress as a

beggar. His new limp would help him in his disguise. With his
golden hair concealed under a cap and a patch across one
eye, his garments dirty and tattered, slightly damaged but

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otherwise useful goods, he'd be able to find a ship that would
take him on.

He'd sail away, out of Uncle's reaches. Whether on

merchant ship or Navy frigate, he'd make his way and earn
his keep. He'd be free, and never return until the old man was
dead, if then.

Kit was no fool. He knew that the life of a sailor was often

short and brutal. But he'd go bravely forth until the bitter
end, a smile on his face, a song on his lips, and the memory
of David in his heart.

He would make a new life for himself ... and live it, fully,

until the day of his death.

Starting off for the storerooms, it was all Kit could do to

keep himself from whistling. Now, if only his luck held...

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Chapter Two
Good God. The storeroom hadn't provided much in the way

of anything decent to wear. Kit had refused to wear anything
his uncle might have cast aside both out of disgust and the
knowledge that they wouldn't fit. In the end, he'd had to
cobble together an outfit that made him look like a clown.
Trousers tight enough that they made his hip ache and
pressed uncomfortably against his balls. A shirt that some
larger servant had discarded, covered with a wine stain down
the front.

Now, why hadn't Uncle disciplined his hired men for

tippling? Let Kit get so much as a foot close to the glass
bottles Uncle treasured, and it'd be the cane or worse.

Kit shrugged philosophically. Ah, well. Perhaps the man

had been let go, and he simply hadn't heard about it.
Servants did tend to come and go, not a few stinging from
the sharp end of Uncle's tongue.

He'd gone beyond a simple pair of pants and shirt, though.

One of his old vests, tight enough that he swore it would put
any corset to shame, had gone over the top and been left
unbuttoned. Made of once-blue cotton now faded to gray, the
buttons were half-off and there was a rip under one sleeve.
His feet were encased in relatively sound boots of his own,
although they bore signs of hard use. A man couldn't be too
careful about the state of his toes, and Kit had decided he'd
be damned if he'd walk around in shoes that pinched or
flopped about.

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To finish his outfit, he'd wrapped a length of cloth around

his head as some of the more rakish men he'd seen did. It
was plain wholecloth, moth-eaten in places, but it did the job.
His short-cropped hair was mostly hidden by the wrap, and he
thought himself to be well-tricked-out given what he'd had to
work with.

It would have been a lark, but for the looks he was

getting.

As Kit made his awkward way down through the streets of

St. Germaine, he could almost feel the press of curious eyes
on him. Every door, every window, every sidewalk, each one
held someone who stopped to gawk. Kit didn't mind them so
much, though. The ones that bothered him were those who
took a quick glance and then looked away—but not before he
saw the pity or avid, greedy pleasure in their eyes.

They recognized him, damn them, and pitied him. He

hated them for it. And pity or not, he had no doubt that more
than one report of his appearance in town, dressed like a
beggar, would make its way to Uncle. Despite the fact that
the man had ordered him down into the town dressed the
way he was, Kit had no doubt that Uncle would have some
sort of punishment waiting for a man who would so disgrace
his family. He knew his mother's brother well enough to
understand the way his filthy mind worked.

There wouldn't be any punishment for him that night,

though. Uncle's cane would have to lie at rest. Retribution for
sins both real and imagined would have to be visited on those
physically present, and Kit ... heading down to the docks, he
had no intention of ever coming back.

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The relief flowing through him in waves gave Kit a sense of

near-jubilation. He deliberately began to ignore the looks he
got, and drank in the sights and sounds of a busy port town
instead. There was so much to look at. So many things he'd
missed since Uncle had made him a near-prisoner in their
house.

House, yes. He wouldn't call it a home.
A home would have been a place with David. Now that he

had gone, Kit would take the next best thing. Joining his lover
in Davy Jones' locker would keep them tied together.

But the sights! On one corner, a noisy tavern—busy even

at midday—echoed with shouts of mirth and deep-throated
calls for more rum. Men spilled out of the entrance, some in
tatters equal to his own, some a little finer. They had their
arms slung about one another's shoulders, roaring at their
own jokes. The yeasty scent of beer and the molasses tang of
rum poured out in waves along with the stink of unwashed
bodies.

Kit paused for a moment to breathe in the bouquet. Then,

favoring his hip and giving a small wince, he moved on.

More and still more to see. A weaver's shop, her neatly

painted sign hanging pristinely above the doorway. The name
in practical block print, and a sheep painted over the letters.
All white and wooly. No doubt the owner, a Mistress Prudence
if Kit recalled, ran a decent and respectable operation. All the
same, from the looks of the apprentice gawking at him from
her open door, she was one of those who reported to his
uncle.

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Kit stopped to stare back at the girl and give her a salute

with two fingers on the edge of his temple. Blushing a deep
shade of red, she rushed back inside, the door banging shut
behind her. Kit chuckled, knowing how she'd be full of gossip.

Let her talk. No one could harm him today, no more than

they already had.

Another place he hesitated was at the baker's. Their

morning rush had long passed, but he could still smell the
headiness of bread fresh from the oven. Kit realized with a
start that he was hungry, not having eaten since the night
before, and then sparingly on the small chunk of cheese he'd
been permitted for dinner. He hesitated long enough that the
baker, a weary old man with salt-and-pepper hair, came out
to glare at him. "What's your business here?" he demanded.

Kit slipped easily into the role of humble beggar. "Nothing,

sir, nothing. Just wondered if you had any heel ends to spare,
is all."

"Heel ends. Hah! That outfit doesn't fool me, boy. I know

who you really are." The man dusted his floury hands off on a
stained apron. "They ought to feed you well enough where
you come from. I'll save my stale bread for my own family.
God knows we haven't enough to feed ourselves."

From the looks of the man's round belly, Kit suspected this

was a lie. "Just a humble beggar, sir," he said, tugging at his
very short forelock where it protruded from the rag wrapped
around his head. "Didn't mean no harm."

"Get on with you and whatever game you're playing. Don't

think your uncle won't hear about this," the baker warned. He

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stood there, meaty hands on hips, until Kit limped away and
left him behind.

Kit's stomach rumbled, but he bade it be quiet. He was

coming up on the docks, now. His heart gave a little leap of
excitement at the sight of the rippling water, dirtied though it
might be. The broad piers were filled with men loading and
unloading cargo from at least half a dozen ships.

The Lady Mary hadn't come in to dock just yet. No doubt

she'd be there by late evening; Kit wouldn't be surprised if his
uncle had nastily planned for him to wait all day.

Well. So be it. In the meantime, no harm in taking a look

around, was there? After all, Uncle thought him thick as a
simpleton. No one would question his wandering around,
looking at this and that.

While he walked, careful of his aching leg, Kit kept his ears

open. Most of the chatter was from sailors who were either
heartily glad to see dry land or those who couldn't bear to be
on solid ground. He heard arguments breaking out between
merchants and sailors, questions over why so much of one
article had been delivered and none of the other.

For the most part, he ignored the chatter as meaningless.

Passing by four prosperous-looking boats, one of which had to
be the ship his uncle had sent him after, Kit stopped in front
of the fifth and studied it. Now here ... this had potential.

A frigate by the looks of her, solidly built and well cared for

from stem to stern, she wasn't as busy as the other boats. A
few sailors made their idle way up the gangplank, laughing
and punching one another in the arm. No cargo seemed to be
coming off, but there was a reasonable stack of it sitting on

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the dock. Someone would be by shortly to collect the goods.
This, Kit decided, was not a ship delivering its cargo. This was
a ship taking on what it could purchase. Something outward
bound, not anchored for long.

Exactly what he wanted.
Kit looked around, and found that he was mostly alone.

Flinching a little at the pain in his hip as he moved, he sat
down atop a large wooden crate and prepared to wait for as
long as it took for what he wanted: someone to hire him on.
There were few people around, none of them interested in
him—for once—and he could take his time.

He could take the rest of his life.
The thought of his uncle stewing almost made Kit smile.
I'm on my way to you, David, he thought. Out, out, deep

in the briny blue...

"I thought that was you." Startled, Kit looked up ... and

up, and up. He cursed silently. "It's Paul Tanner. Do you
remember me?"

Oh, yes, he remembered Paul very well. A good friend of

David's, one who David had claimed was trustworthy. Well
then, where had he been after the news of David's death?
He'd not come near the big house, no indeed. He'd stayed put
in his father's tannery, never once trying to visit Kit.

It'd been months since Kit had met the fellow, and he took

quick stock of what could very well be an unwelcome
opponent. Paul nearly rivaled David in height, but where
David had been a barrel-chested fellow with bulging arms and
rock-hard thighs, Paul was a more typical sort of man. Broad

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shoulders tapering down in a V to his waist, and long, strong
legs.

Paul was dressed plainly and for work with a few stains of

dye on his clothing and his palms both nut-brown from the
labor he put in at the tannery. His face was worth a second
look from anyone that knew how to appreciate a man's
beauty. A pair of twinkling brown eyes the color of rum, a
broad mouth that was quick to smile, and a patrician nose all
decorated his good-natured face. His hair was black as a
raven's wing and cropped short. From the look of the rough
stubble on his jaw he'd forgotten to shave himself for a day or
so, but other than that he was every inch a respectable
citizen.

Respectable, yes, but appearances could be deceiving.

Paul must have known what David and Kit were to each
other. David had always been full of stories of Paul and the
mischief he got up to. To hear David talk, their bond of
friendship was second only to the bond of love between David
and Kit.

"I remember you, Paul," Kit said flatly, not bothering to

get up or offer his hand. "Did you follow me here?"

Paul flushed lightly, then grinned. "Well, I did, a bit. I was

taking a break to have a bite of lunch when I saw you
stumping your way through the crowds. I'd never seen you
dressed up like this, and I figured your uncle must have put
you up to something against your will. So I thought I'd come
along and see if I could lend a hand."

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Now, yes. Where was your hand then? "I'm in need of no

assistance." Kit turned his face away, back to the ship. "You
can be on your way."

"Kit, don't." Paul nudged at him, and when Kit didn't move,

seated himself carefully on the edge of the crate. Their
shoulders touched, the heat of another's flesh searing like a
brand. Kit inhaled slightly. He hadn't felt the brush of
anyone's body since the night before David sailed. He was
unclean, after all. "I'm only trying to look out for you."

"I can look out for myself quite well."
"Sure you can." Paul pushed Kit again. "This ship you're

staring at? I've been hearing talk about it all the day long. It
looks like an ordinary merchant vessel, surely, but the
captain's a dangerous sort of fellow. All dark and lean, like a
black cat somehow changed into a man. He came in for some
boot leather, and I misliked the look in his eyes."

Kit shook his head. "Men who make their living on the sea

have to be hard. Do you have a point, Paul, or do you plan to
sit here dickering until your lunch break is over?"

"Oh, that's already long past. Father will be furious, but

I've had more than one whipping from him before. He'll get
over it." Paul waved a careless hand. "Truth be told, I'd
wanted to see you, Kit. I should have come to you when ...
but I suppose you know that, don't you?"

Kit remained utterly still. "Say what you've come to say

and move on. I have business to attend to."

He could feel the weight of Paul's gaze. "All right, then, I

will. It'll go without saying that I was a fool not to defend you

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over David, but to my own credit I was grieving the loss of a
friend, myself."

"And it doesn't bother you to be seen sitting with a man

you know to be a sodomite?"

"That. Yes." Paul took in a deep breath. "Your uncle's more

or less the law around here. What the Governor knows, he
knew first, and what he chooses to keep from the Governor
stays hidden. People talk, surely, but there's been neither
pillory nor a hanging for you. Turn around and look at me,
would you? It's getting hard talking to the side of your head."
Kit stiffened as he felt Paul's hand land lightly on his arm.
"I'm asking your forgiveness, for one. I was an ass not to
think of you in your time of need."

"Never mind. We both know that associating yourself with

me might tar you with the same brush," Kit said with a sigh.
"Fine, apology accepted."

"Now I believe you're lying. Come, turn around and face

me. Do." Paul pulled on Kit's arm hard enough that Kit did
face him, feeling his cheeks heat up in a fine temper. Before
he could speak, though, Paul put a finger over his lips. "I've
been meaning to try and visit with you for ages, Kit. You..."
He stopped. "We both needed some time, I figured."

Kit blinked. "Time for what?"
Paul fidgeted. "It's not like you're thinking, Kit. Please

believe me."

"You dare? David's been dead for over half a year now, so

I must be itching for someone else, is that it? That's why you
approach me?" Kit gave Paul a hard shove. "I'll have none of
this. Be on your way."

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Paul stood, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "I'm not

trying to entice you into my bed," he said. "Yet."

"Do you think I would go at all?" Kit turned stubbornly

away, facing the sea. "Once given, my heart cannot be
returned."

"Kit..." Paul began, reaching out to touch him again. "Kit, I

would only offer comfort ... ah, hell! Here he comes. Kit, best
be up and on your way. The captain of this ship is
approaching, and he's like as not to press you into service,
the way you look. For your own sake, move."

Kit shook his head. "I want to go." He twisted his head to

take in the sight of a tall, straight-backed man striding down
the length of the dock. "The sea's where I belong. I have no
home here any longer."

"Well, well, what's this I hear?" The captain had apparently

picked up on the tail end of Kit's speech. Two shining new
boots planted themselves in front of Kit, while the ends of a
tailcoat swished around trim hips atop well-muscled legs in
tight breeches. Kit looked up into the captain's face.

He looked, and he liked. The captain was no young man,

to be sure, but he had the mien of a mischievous young boy
glittering in his eyes. Kit tilted his head and examined the
man, thinking that yes, he could see the similarity to the
black cat Paul had described him as. All lean lines and sinuous
grace from the ease of his gait to his long, elegant fingers. He
wore a neatly trimmed beard so black that it almost glowed
blue, as did the long hair he had tied in a queue.

Lifting one of his new boots and planting it on the side of

Kit's crate, the captain leaned forward. He had an intrigued

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look on his face. "Well, then. Someone has an urge to go to
sea?"

Kit met the captain's gaze without flinching. The man was

attractive, to be sure, but so were many others and his heart
belonged with David still. No, what held him was a similarity
to what he'd seen on David's face. A wildness, a sort of
passion for life that could only be found by braving the rough
seas. "I am," he replied. "Do you have need of another hand
on board your ship?"

The captain chuckled. "Well, you certainly come in good

time. As it happens, I'm low on able-bodied men. You look
sturdy enough. Fancy a life on the ocean, do you?"

"He limps," Paul blurted, his hand tightening on Kit's

shoulder. "Have him get up and walk around."

Kit bucked off Paul's grasp. "I took a blow to the leg

earlier," he said, blazing with anger. "I'm neither crippled nor
maimed. No lasting damage. I'm fit a man as any you might
want."

"So I see." The captain examined Kit with a thoughtful

look. "You're a little too fit, in my opinion. Open your mouth."

Startled, Kit did so. The captain caught Kit's lower lip with

a thumb and ordered, "Bite." He narrowed his eyes, then let
go. "You still have all your own teeth, fine and white. Your
skin's got a healthy cast. There's precious little meat on your
bones, though. You are, young man, a mystery." The captain
raised his hand to his chin and rubbed it. "What's got you so
set on running away from what must be a privileged life?
Going to sea isn't a lark, you know."

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"I know very well," Kit said through gritted teeth. "My—

dearest friend sailed out some months ago and never came
back. His name was David. David Green. Did you ever hear of
him?"

"David? Davy the Fearless?" The captain held his

expression for a long moment before dissolving into chuckles.
"Nay, I've never heard of your friend, young lad. But I
understand you a little better now. Your friend must have
given up his life for a chance at sea, and now you're following
in his footsteps. Well, if you're hoping to sink, don't count on
it with my ship. I keep her in fine trim."

Kit nodded, sure that there were white lines radiating out

from the corners of his mouth—something that David had
joked about whenever Kit grew intent on a matter. "Am I
hired on, then?"

"You'd be a fool to take him," Paul protested. "He's

throwing his life away."

"And you'd call serving on a fine ship the waste of a life?"

The captain seemed offended. "Well, now. I'd planned on
taking this one, but perhaps I'll have the both of you."

"Here, now, just wait a minute—" Kit turned to see Paul

backpedaling—right into the arms of two burly sailors who'd
appeared as if from nowhere. They grabbed him by the
shoulders and hung on tight. "What madness is this? Let me
go."

"Ah, but I don't think so. You're so intent on looking after

the welfare of this one, then I reckon you've a vested interest
in him. Where he goes, you follow. Don't lie to me, boy, I can
see it in your eyes. That, and perhaps a little something else

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that might have you swinging from a noose." The pirate
grinned. "You needn't answer. I can see the truth stamped
across your face."

Paul was silent. Kit spoke up in his place. "He has a job in

his father's tannery. He'll be missed. Leave him behind and
take me."

"Now why would I do that, when I could get two for the

price of one? I told you I was short of able-bodied men. And
surely you've heard of press-ganging? I've just
commandeered the pair of you for sailors on my ship." The
captain laughed as, behind them, Kit heard the sounds of a
struggle. "Men, get him on board. Don't bruise him up, he's
far too pretty, but get him inside. Order some others to get
the rest of this cargo stashed away. We sail tonight."

"And I'll be going along with you?" Kit asked, staring the

captain in his eyes.

The captain nodded. "My word is my bond." Once again, he

was struck by the man's resemblance to a cat as he stretched
luxuriantly and stood. The sounds of Paul's kicking and
cursing were nothing but background noise as the captain
stepped back and offered Kit a hand up. "You'll have a good
life on board the Blue Lady Bones." He stroked his beard.
"Blue, you see? You and your friend together are in for a fine
life."

"He's no friend of mine." Kit spat, bitter. "And make no

mistake, there will be men hunting for him."

The captain shrugged. "Let them hunt. I'll keep him tucked

away with the cargo until we set sail, and there's no one but
you or me to tell anyone where he is. And boy..." The captain

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paused. "If you want a home on this vessel, you will keep
your mouth shut. Obedience above all else, do you hear me?
What I say do, you do. What I forbid stays forbidden. I'm
taking you anyway, but you'd best know that ahead of time."

Kit stood, braving the pain by squaring himself on both

feet, and put out his hand for the captain to take. Having Paul
along was a definite complication, but as the captain said, life
at sea was a risky gamble. Like as not either one or both of
them would be dead before word could trickle back to land as
to their whereabouts.

He'd hate seeing Paul every day, but he wouldn't pass up

this chance at his freedom. "I'm in," he said steadily, waiting
for the captain to accept him. "My name's Kit."

The captain's eyes sparkled into Kit's as he grinned. "Good

man, then, Kit. Now, up the gangplank you get. We'll hoist
sails before the sun sets. Your life as a sailor has now begun."

Kit felt a deep tension inside him relax. He might have just

sold himself into servitude, but where it really mattered he
was free.

Free, and never coming back again.

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Chapter Three
Despite his pride, by the time that Kit had taken a few

steps up the gangplank, the pain in his hip made it impossible
for him not to limp. His face burned with injured pride. Damn
Uncle and his godsrotten cane to the pits of Hell! He couldn't
afford to be seen as weak, not now.

A hand came to rest at the small of his back. "Easy now,"

the captain murmured, sounding lightly amused. "I was told
you had a limp. I'm not about to cast you aside because you
have a little difficulty walking."

"The limp is temporary," Kit gritted through the pain and

anger. "I took a blow earlier."

The captain laughed again, though Kit couldn't understand

why. "Did you really, now? Well. You might be of more use
than I'd thought." Another puzzling speech. "No matter. A
slight injury, I'm sure, that will heal in no time. All the same,
I'll have a look when we're on board. We've no butcher—
doctor, that is to say—and I won't have my man going
without some sort of attention."

"It will be naught but a bruise," Kit warned. "There's no

broken bone."

"I'll be the judge on that matter. Now, go slowly. This is a

steep incline, slippery from the water, and I'll not have you
falling." The captain pushed Kit gently. "Up you go. I'm right
behind you."

Odd prickles ran up and down Kit's spine. The captain's

hand on him felt almost proprietary, as if he were staking a
sort of claim. That wouldn't do. Kit didn't want any

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preferential treatment. He'd have to go slow until the bruises
healed, but he could be as able-bodied a seaman as any of
those on this ship.

"I'll be fine," Kit insisted.
"Have it your way." The captain removed his hand,

although his voice continued to have a good-humored lilt. "I
can see you're a stubborn one. That's good, though." Kit felt
the brush and tickle of the captain's blue beard as the man
leaned close to whisper in his ear. "Just the way I like them."

Kit frowned and resisted the urge to shake his head. The

way the man acted, it almost seemed that he ... but he
couldn't, could he? No respectable fellow would dare be so
open about such a thing, and he was sure this captain would
toss him overboard if he got wind of Kit's true past.

Speaking of which ... that brought up the thought of Paul.

Kit's lips firmed as he walked, one slow step at a time. Paul
would no doubt still be fighting against the men who had
taken him on board. Truly, he felt aplenty of sympathy for the
man press-ganged against his will, but ... by God, Paul had
been the one to go rushing in where he wasn't wanted.
Besides, from what Kit remembered, Paul was resourceful.
He'd find his way off the ship at one port of call or another.

Kit hoped.
He didn't really want any harm to come to one of David's

friends, after all.

Finally, Kit reached the top of the gangplank and set foot

on the captain's ship. He looked around, taking in as many
details as he could. Burly men, all muscles and hard faces
with skin like leather, stomped about on this errand or that.

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Some were doing things with objects mounted on the deck,
some carried cargo, and some were working on bits of repair.
Others were skinny, their backs bowed from scurvy, but they
toiled just as hard. Jokes flew back and forth, some of them
ribald enough to make Kit's ears burn.

What he knew about ships could be fit in a thimble with

room left over. But for all he could tell, this was a good,
sound vessel. "Excuse me, sir," he said to the captain,
remembering his manners. "If I may, what's the name of this
ship again?"

The captain patted Kit on the shoulder. "Why, the Lady

Bones, she is, her that used to be The Royal Shell. She's
come under my commission lately, and I thought a change of
name would do us all good." He leaned close again. "Change
does well by all of us."

Before Kit could puzzle this out, the captain had

straightened and given him a thump to the shoulder. "Good
men, all!" he shouted.

A roar of greetings volleyed back at him, every man jack

stopping to await the word of their captain. Kit felt
uncomfortable with so many eyes on him, but stood firm.

"Finish your jobs here as soon as may be," the captain

ordered. "We'll haul anchor sooner rather than later, as quick
as possible."

One sailor sniggered. "Would our haste have anything to

do with yonder lad locked away in his cabin, cursing us all to
the pits of Hell?"

"Do you question my decisions?" the captain demanded.

"One man doesn't concern me. But it's high time we were

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back on the seas, eh? No profit to be made by sitting in port
when our cargo's already been sold. And we're after our
fortunes, aren't we?"

The men cheered, some pumping their arms up and down

in lewd approval. Despite his own checkered past Kit felt
embarrassed, and was glad when the captain turned him
around. "Come with me, then. I can trust the lads to get us
squared away."

Kit frowned, puzzled. "You don't want me to pitch in? My

back's strong, as are my arms, even if my hip is a little dodgy
right now."

"No, no. I said we'd have a look at your injury first, and so

we shall." The captain laid his hand on Kit again, giving him a
gentle shove. "Into my cabin, I think. Do you know where
that's likely to be?"

Once again, Kit was faced with his lack of knowledge. He

hunted through his memory of scattered facts and came up
with what he thought might be the answer. "Dead behind us,
on the aft of the ship?" he hazarded.

"Good guess!" The captain thumped Kit's back. "Straight

ahead, then. Not far to go."

Kit glanced about himself as he walked. The Lady Bones

continued to impress him more and more. The sailors were all
dutiful about keeping her wood shining or freshly painted, the
smell of varnish heavy in the air along with sweat, turpentine,
and the saltiness of the sea that lapped around the sides of
the ship. It seemed sharper up here, fresher and cleaner,
more as if they were at full sail already.

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When he and the captain reached the cabin, the captain's

hand pressed hard on Kit's skin. "No one opens a door on this
ship that doesn't belong to them without my permission," he
warned. "I told you there would be rules, and here's one. You
don't go into storage, cargo, the brig, my cabin, anywhere
but your own little hole without my say-so and my hand on
the key. I'll give you a little privacy, seeing as how I may
want some ... well. But otherwise, do we understand one
another?"

Kit nodded. He'd no idea what to expect from a captain,

but this seemed a reasonable enough request. Besides, why
would he want to poke around where he didn't belong? The
captain would see him through all in good time. This life at
sea was far more pleasant than he'd expected! No wonder
David had been so eager to set sail.

"Here we are." The captain pushed his door open with nary

a creak or squeak of hinge, and ushered Kit inside. The room
was dark despite two small windows that let in the daylight
and air. "Tch. This will never do. Stand right where you are,
still as a mouse, and let me light us up a bit." The captain left
Kit's side and strode forward, confident in his ability to
navigate in the gloom. Kit heard the sound of a tinderbox
rattling, and then the bright flare of light.

The captain ignited a lantern mounted on the wall of his

cabin, then stood back to admire the dancing flame. It lit up
the small room admirably, not fully illuminating the place but
casting enough of a glow that Kit could see—and, apparently,
be seen.

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The captain had turned on him and was striding closer.

"Hold still for me," he commanded. "Can you do that? Stand
exactly where you are without moving."

Kit held his ground, not sure of what test this might be. If

it was his ability to obey orders, he could do that. Better
commands from a dodgy seaman than sniping demands from
his gout-ridden uncle.

"There. You have such pretty manners," the captain said,

coming to a stop with his hands on his hips. "They go well
with such a comely face."

Kit blinked. "M—me? I'm not—"
"Ah, but you are." The captain laid one callused fingertip

on Kit's lips. "I suspect you'd do anything to keep your place
on board this ship, young Kit. Am I right?"

Kit nodded. "Anything you might want of me, I'll do."
"Ah, I see." The captain's grin became slightly predatory.

"Let's both keep that in mind, shall we?" He ran the finger
down Kit's chin and the length of his throat, stopping only at
the open neck of Kit's shirt. "Off with your trousers," he
suggested. "I'll have a look at the damage himself."

Kit hesitated. He was bare beneath the pants, and while it

was one thing to be welcomed aboard ship, the captain's
attitude troubled him. David had done just such a thing once
upon a time, tracing Kit's face with his fingers and calling him
"pretty". His spine prickled in warning.

All the same, he couldn't risk being put back on shore...
Hesitant, Kit pulled at his trousers and scooted them down

his thighs. His cock lay mercifully quiescent against his thigh,
not hidden at all by the tatters of his shirt. Glancing down, he

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could see the skin on his hip already blossoming out into dark
and ugly colors. His thigh had fared no better, already
purpling with a bruise.

The captain ran light fingertips over the hip injury. "No

wonder you wanted to run away from home," he muttered.
"No one should beat anything so pretty. Not unless they
deserved it. And you didn't, did you?"

Kit shook his head.
"Come here, if you would," the captain directed. "Come

here to me, where I lead, and shut the door behind you. The
captain sat down on the edge of his bed, a flat affair with
rope supports. "No shyness, now. Come, pretty Kit, and stand
in front of me. No, no, don't pull your breeches back up yet."

"I'd feel more comfortable if—"
"My word is law aboard this ship," the captain said quietly,

but in a tone that brooked no refusal. "I'm not done with my
examination."

"What else is left to look at? I—"
"Silence!" the captain barked. "I'll look my fill at what I

please." He raised his eyes to Kit's face. "You signed on,
which means that you're mine to do what I please with. And if
it pleases me to look on you naked, then that's what I'll do."

Kit's heart began to beat faster. He licked his lips.

Thoughts of David slid though his mind quick as a shoal of
fish flickering past. "I—I belong to another..."

"This David, yes?" The captain's hands were wandering

back down to Kit's hips. He took a firm hold on the one side
and a gentler on the other, still forceful enough to cause pain.
Kit bit back a wince and stood still. His heart beat quicker

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than a rabbit's in the trap, but he knew better than to stand
up against the man now in charge of his fate.

"Such a pretty lad," the captain mused, kneading Kit's

hips. "Fair of face and full of grace. Fine manners and healthy
as a fatling calf. You're weighted down by memories, but I'll
wipe your mind clean of them."

Kit's breath caught in his throat as the captain reached for

his cock. It rested limp in the palm of the man's rough hand.
No other hand but his own had touched it in so long ...
despite himself, his flesh jumped and began to fill. The
captain hummed, as if he were well pleased. "Pretty, pretty,"
he murmured. "Just as I'd thought. This David of yours was
more than a friend, wasn't he?" He began to stroke Kit's cock.
"You're running away from more than the person who did you
this injury, aren't you? Well, you're in fine company, lad."

Kit's prick was hard by then, lengthened and broadened

despite his desperate willing for it to go down. The touch of a
hand, though, undid all his wishing and hoping. The captain
chuckled as he rubbed Kit's cock, tracing the thick blue veins
and measuring the circumference with his thumb and
forefinger. "Just large enough," he said in a low voice. "Come
closer, Kit." When Kit hesitated, he made an impatient noise.
"Closer, I said. I've a mind to start driving thoughts of that
David out of your head."

"Impossible," Kit gasped before he could measure his

speech. But once begun, he plunged on, "For the sake of pity,
captain."

"Jeremiah," the man responded, squeezing Kit's prick. "It's

'captain' when we're among the men. But here in this cabin,

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you'll call me by my Christian name. Though it's no Christian
thing that I intend for you, lad. Make no mistake." He glanced
up again, his eyes flickering with a dark sort of lust. "Do you
object? Say no, and it's off the side you go, whether we're
close to land or not. You're my able-bodied man now, and I
mean to have you."

Kit swallowed hard as Jeremiah lowered his mouth to Kit's

prick. He felt his face darken blood-red at the first brush of
lips across his cock head and scratch of beard across the
tender skin of his inner thighs. This was wrong. He belonged
to David ... David and no other...

"Oh, God!" he cried out as Jeremiah began to use his

tongue. He grabbed out for something to support, and ended
up grasping at the captain's shoulder. Jeremiah chuckled as
he slid his mouth down Kit's prick, sucking expertly.

Fuck, but it has been so long ... Kit's knees all but buckled

as the captain worked magic on his cock. He thought
desperately of David, trying to pretend that he was Jeremiah.
That they were back together again, loving on one another
with all the strength in their bodies.

When he closed his eyes, the fantasy took hold. He was in

David's arms again, adoring and being adored. His hips began
to work, thrusting into a wet and eager mouth, his orgasm
drawing up in the pit of his belly. He hadn't spent himself in
days, and the ache in his balls told him the event was nigh.

Kit loosed a deep groan and let himself come, flooding the

grasping throat that held him with gout after gout of steaming
hot semen. David had never minded swallowing Kit's seed,
and neither, it seemed, did Jeremiah. His body rocked and he

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grew light-headed, heavy beads of sweat springing out over
his skin.

When he came to himself and opened his eyes, the room

was gray for a moment. He looked down, fully expecting to
see David's springy brown curls—and gasped when he saw
the captain's blue-black hair. Oh, God. Oh, God. What have I
done?

"Shh," Jeremiah soothed. "Shh. No questions, no doubts.

You needed that as much as I wanted it. You can't deny that
you enjoyed yourself."

Kit held back the words: I was thinking of my David.

"Captain—Jeremiah—" he started. "I've been faithful—"

Jeremiah shook his head. "Perhaps you have, but those

days are over now. Kit, you are my man now. I claim you in
more than the usual sense. We come to the rules again. No
using my keys, no questioning my orders, and no denying my
hunger for you. I'll call upon the use of your body as many
times as I please."

"Your—your sailors," Kit fumbled, searching for an excuse.

"They won't....?"

"None of them who know what's in their best interest." The

captain slid Kit's pants back up and gave his ass a spank. He
stood, commanding in his authority. "You'll be returning the
favor, but all in good time. Now, we'll get you squared away
in a little space of your own. But remember, Kit, remember
this." The captain took a hard hold of his hips, fierce enough
that Kit gasped with the pain. "You are mine, Kit. No one
else's. From this moment on, you belong to me." He paused,
glaring up. "Are we clear on this?"

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Kit's mouth felt dry as paper. Oh, God, what have I gotten

myself into? His prick gave a last throb, reminding him all too
keenly. He managed a nod, though, not knowing what else to
do. He couldn't go back on shore. He wouldn't.

And it wasn't as if he were betraying David, not truly. He

would always imagine David instead of Jeremiah, and perhaps
when they were out far enough, he'd have the courage to
jump overboard. He'd join his lover for sure and for true.

Jeremiah let go of him then, rough hands releasing Kit with

some reluctance. He stood, deliberately brushing his body
along the length of Kit's. "But yes, your 'cabin'. Walk with me.
It's just this way. I want you close at hand." He put his hand
on Kit's back again, guiding him not gently, but firmly,
brooking no denial.

They exited the cabin. Kit became acutely aware of how

the men must have been gawking at him, more than a few
letting out bawdy snickers, but kept his eyes fixed on the
wooden planks beneath him.

He heard a call for someone to pull up the anchor. This

was it. They'd be sailing off, and he'd no way of getting
back—even if he had wanted to—or getting off except over
the side.

Together with the captain, he went down a short flight of

stairs, and came to a stop at a scarred wooden door. The
captain took up his jingling ring of keys and selected one,
thrusting it into the lock. "You'll be kept here unless I say the
word," he warned. "Your bunkmate is free to come and go,
but if you know what's good for you, you'll stay put."

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The door swung open and the captain gave Kit a rough

push inside. "Enjoy your stay on the Blue Lady Bones," he
said with a nasty little chuckle. "And take pleasure in your
accommodations. You'll see that I've given you a little touch
of home to remind you of what you don't want to go back to."
The man withdrew, keys jingling at his belt. "Fare you well.
We're off to sea."

The door shut, leaving Kit to listen to the sounds of

Jeremiah's boots pounding up the stairs. His rough voice
begin barking out orders to the men on deck. Kit's eyes,
however, were wholly occupied with the other seaman in his
small cabin: Paul.

Paul lay on his back in a threadbare hammock strung from

the ceiling, hands tucked behind his head. His dark eyes
stared at Kit, but he said nothing.

"Don't look at me that way," Kit muttered after a moment,

glancing away. He went to his own hammock and sat down on
the edge. His hip gave a rumble of pain as he swung into the
rough hammock. The way the thing swung gave his stomach
a touch of uneasiness, but it was comfortable enough.

He thought of the comfort he'd recently received, and felt

himself grow tense.

"And here I had thought you were faithful to David," Paul

broke the silence to say.

"I am," Kit snapped.
"Then why do you reek of sex? Were I to come close

enough I'd be able to smell the scent of bay rum strongly as if
a likely suspect were here, and there's a big spot of freshly-

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spilled seed on you as well. He had you, didn't he?" Paul sat
up a little. "Do you call that being faithful?"

Kit refused to look at his cabin mate. "I did what I had to

do," he muttered. "It's none of your affair. As soon as we're
far enough out to sea, I'll—"

"You'll do nothing, because the captain will lock you in

here. Oh, I've overheard story after story while you were
occupied, Kit. The captain likes his pretty blond prizes, and he
keeps them safely tucked away. The only sights you'll see on
this boat are the room we lie in and the captain's cabin."

Kit shook his head. "I will be free."
"No, you won't. You're more of a prisoner than ever, and

you're betraying your love in the process."

"I am not betraying him!'
"Being taken against your will, then," Paul pressed. "The

captain won't stop at one. And there's more, Kit. While they
marched me down to this cabin, I saw the true flags of this
ship rolled up and stowed away for hoisting when we're out to
sea. This is a pirate ship, Kit, masquerading as a
merchantman."

A tendril of fear snaked into Kit's heart. "Pirates?"
"Oh, aye. The captain's no honorable man. He holds his

treasures dearer than any other tie, and he'll bind you down
surely as any prize."

"And what do you suggest I do about it?" Kit demanded.

"You're as much of a prisoner as I am, aren't you?"

Paul was silent for a long moment. "Don't waste yourself,"

he said abruptly. "You're worth far more than being a play-
toy for a pirate."

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"And I suppose I should turn to you, instead?" Kit goaded.
He was startled by Paul's reply. "I wish that you would," he

said quietly, and then said no more save for "Go to sleep, Kit.
The captain's going to want you again tonight. And again. And
again. But remember what I've said. Look for a way out. Call
on me if you're ever in trouble, do you hear? Call on me. As
for what I've proposed to you, well ... think about that too, if
you would. Although I doubt the captain will share."

Kit lay still, thoughts tumbling over and over inside his

mind.

Dear God. Perhaps he would have been better off staying

at home after all. Out of the frying pan and into the...

"Hard to starboard!" the captain roared above their heads.

"We're pointed toward the Caribbean!" The men cheered.
Heavy boots tromped on the deck, each one pounding in time
with the thump-thump-thump of Kit's heart.

Oh, God, he mouthed to himself, the blasphemy becoming

a litany. Oh, God, oh, God, oh God...

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Chapter Four
Caught between earth and sky in his swinging hammock, it

was easy to sleep on board the Lady Bones. All the other
sailors—pirates?—had settled down, the yelling and clattering
muting to a dull hum, with the occasional sound of boots
overhead. There would only be a skeleton crew on the night
watch, or so Kit imagined.

Which made him think of the captain, fast asleep in the

bed where he'd ... they'd...

Closing his eyes tighter, Kit escaped into sleep.
And dreamed.

* * * *

"Kit? Kit, pet, wake up. You've been having nightmares

again." David's broad hand brushed against the side of Kit's
cheek. Kit turned his head to look directly at the man
opposite him, his cheek pillowed on his arm and an impish
grin on David's lips. "You know you're not allowed, right?"

"Mmm. You're beginning to sound like Uncle." Kit rolled

onto his side, all the better to face David. He leaned in to kiss
his lover, savoring the illicit thrill of doing such a thing, even
in this tucked-away place. The man's lips were soft and full
under his own, giving way to his tongue with a warm chuckle.
David shifted so that he could throw a bulky arm over Kit,
drawing him closer.

Nestled against his David's chest, Kit rubbed his face on

the man's bare chest and sighed with contentment. "Don't

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go," he asked softly. "All those months without you. What will
I do?"

"Ah, Kit..." David's hand came up to tangle in his hair. "It's

only to make my fortune. Surely you don't grudge me that?
With a little money, you and I can both leave this place.
Maybe go to Paris. I've heard that there's a lot more going on
there than is allowed in the cape towns, or even yet London.
You and I could share a place together. Maybe not live
openly, but..."

"I know." Kit butted his head harder against David's solid

chest. He put out his tongue and licked a wet trail up a ridge
of muscle. "Promise that you'll come back to me, though."

"As if I have to say the words. You know I will."
"Unless there's a storm at sea. Or you're overtaken by

pirates. Or you fall ill. Or—"

"Kit, Kit!" David was fully caught up in laughter by then,

his body shaking with its force. "If I don't come back, then it's
just meant to be."

"Don't say such a thing."
"Aye, well, we must face it, mustn't we? Since you brought

this up in the first place. Kit, if I'm lost, you're to go on. D'you
understand? I won't have you mourning over me for forever
and a day."

"David..." Kit pressed himself tighter, harder, closer. "Your

ship sails with the morning light, and I have to be gone from
here long before. Kiss me? Once more before I have to
leave."

"And there's nothing I hate more than your having to

depart," David said with a sigh. "But that's the problem with

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living here. You can't risk being caught, and I won't put you
to the chance. But here, a kiss for you, since you asked so
nicely." He put his fingers under Kit's chin and lifted his face
until he was gazing back into David's warm eyes. "One kiss,"
David said, dropping a light caress on his lips. "One more ...
and another ... and perhaps yet again..."

Kit laughed as David's hands began to move, reaching

down to cup Kit's growing erection and using the other hand
to spread out broad-fingered on Kit's back. David was
tireless, indeed, and they had time for one more fuck before
he had to leave...

Suddenly, David ceased moving. "What's wrong?" Kit

asked after a moment. "David, you're growing cold. Are you
ill?"

David didn't move. His skin grew chillier still, and began to

feel as if it were wet. Kit's own shirt grew damp from the
rivulets trickling down David's skin. He pushed at his lover.
"David, what's wrong?" Wriggling out from underneath
David's arm, Kit raised up on both of his to stare at the man.

Oh, God!
David's face had gone blue and swollen. His eyes stared

blankly at nothing. As Kit watched he seemed to sink through
the bed down into a sea of briny blue water, hair swaying in
the current. Fish swarmed in to nibble on ... no! Kit reached
for David, straining to haul him back up, but the man was too
big.

Tumbling out of bed, Kit searched the barn for some sort

of rope and lever. He'd save David. He would, he would, he

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would. Seeing a hank of tangled lines tucked in one corner,
he made for it—

And stopped, with the captain standing in front of him. An

erection bulged in his tight black pants, exaggerated by his
groping the bulge. "There you are, pretty one," he said. "Look
at me, Kit. Look at your future. I'll keep you here, Kit. It's the
price of this voyage, and all other voyages until I tire of you."
He stepped closer, pushing his hips out. "Suck me, Kit. You
know I want you to."

"No," Kit choked, stumbling back. "I won't. I can't. David. I

have to save David."

"Hmm. And would this be your David?" Jeremiah strode to

the bed, half of which was flooded with water. He looked
down, shook his head, and laughed. "Come and have a look
at your precious lover. See what you think of him now."

Kit made a grab for the rope, and hurried back to David's

side. He made to untangle the snarl and reach down into the
water—then stopped. His stomach turned over. David's body
had bloated out with the water, stretching and splitting. Rot
had progressed over the whole of him, turning him blue and
black with decay. His bones were showing through, and his
hair falling out. Both his eyes had filmed over.

Kit dropped the rope with a cry of dismay. He plunged his

arms into the water, desperate still to try and rescue David,
then yelled as Jeremiah caught him and pulled him back.
"Your lover's gone," the captain said dispassionately. "Time
for you to move on, Kit. And you know where to go. Right
here with me, lad. I've chosen you, you see. And you belong
to me now."

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Wrenching Kit around, the captain pressed on his

shoulders, forcing him down onto his knees. Jeremiah's hand
went to the placket of his pants, slowly beginning to unfasten
it. "You're mine," the man said, his breath starting to quicken.
"All mine, and I'm not about to let you go..."

"No," Kit shouted, struggling against the man's hands.

"No!"

* * * *

"No!" Kit moaned, thrashing to and fro. Hands were on

him, too hot, holding him close. "Don't touch me ... no, I
won't ... leave me be ... David, oh, God, David..."

"Hush now, hush," an unfamiliar voice came. "Kit, are you

awake? Kit, open your eyes. You've been dreaming, Kit. Open
up and see. It's just me. Just Paul. No one's here to hurt
you."

Kit's eyes flew open. He stared into darkness, panicking for

a moment with the thought that he'd gone blind, and
thrashed against the arms that held him tight. "Let go of me,
let go!"

"Not until you calm down." Kit recognized the voice with its

low, burly tones. "You were having nightmares, Kit, and
yelling fit to bring the ship down upon us."

"I—I—oh," Kit panted. Automatically, he reached out to

grab Paul. "Such dreams, I..."

A loud banging on the door interrupted him. "Be all well in

there?" came the surly demand. "Sounded like cats being
tortured."

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Paul rolled hastily away from Kit. "All's well," he answered

without a trace of concern. "Just a bit of an argument."

"You go on like that, the captain's going to have you

separated," the voice warned. Then, the speaker snickered.
"Before your time, that is. He'll have the pretty in his own
cabin before too long. Just a little while to lull you down nice
and quiet..."

Paul rolled back and put a hand over Kit's mouth. "We'll

see," he replied. "Let us sleep, eh? I for one know I've got to
be up with the dawn. I'm told they'll be teaching me how to
work the sails."

"Sails. Oh, aye." The man behind the voice sniggered

again. "Methinks you'll find that an interesting lesson. Keep it
down, then, would you? Don't want the Cap'n getting
suspicious. You're damn lucky you didn't wake him."

"Yes, of course," Paul said, keeping his hand firmly across

Kit's mouth. "We wouldn't want that. Go on, now. We're fine."

"Go on, now, oh, go on," the voice mimicked, giving the

words a nasty twist. "Fine manners, little one. We'll soon see
about working those out of you. Pah! Go to sleep, you
slugabed. Morning comes sooner than you'd think."

Paul kept his hand over Kit's mouth until the sound of the

sailor's boots had tromped away. "I think we're safe now," he
said, hushed and quiet. "Forgive me, Kit. I didn't think you
were fit to speak."

Kit's temper blazed. He bit Paul smartly on the palm,

almost but not quite breaking the skin. Paul let out a muffled
curse and rolled away. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the
little bit of light they had, Kit could see the man, still dressed

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in his working clothes, clutching his hand. "You little imp!" he
spat, still keeping his voice down. "Is this the thanks I get?"

"I can handle myself," Kit hissed.
"Oh, you can, can you?" Paul shook his head. "You'd have

blurted out that you were having bad dreams, or something
equally unwise. Then that man would have had a tale to carry
back to the captain, or hauled you up there himself. And Kit, I
don't think you would have liked that. Not being close to the
man again."

Kit felt his cheeks heat up. "The captain is a fine man."
"He wants you for his lover. His pretty little blond pet. Is

that what you want? Would David have wanted you to
become a toy to dandle on some powerful man's knee?"

"Be quiet," Kit muttered. He realized that at some point

he'd fallen out of his hammock, leaving both he and Paul
sitting on the hard wooden floor. The position he lay in made
his hip ache so he sat up, drawing his knees beneath his chin.
"You've done enough already."

"Have I?" Paul moved closer. "How often do you have

these dreams, Kit?"

Kit shook his head. "That's none of your affair."
"But they were worse tonight, am I right?" Paul pressed.

"Because of what he did to you earlier. The captain."

"Leave it. I said I'm fine." Kit tucked his face against his

knees. His hip hurt with a fiery passion, but he didn't move a
second time. "I'm fine," he repeated. "Go back to sleep and
leave me alone."

"I can't do that," Paul said firmly. "There's something you

should have known long ago. Something I was far too lax

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about doing when we were back in St. Germaine. Before he
left on his voyage, David made me promise to take care of
you. That's why, despite your uncle's wrath, there was no
hanging for you. I spread the word that the talk was naught
but rumors. Since I'd been David's best friend, they believed
me, at least enough to keep your head attached to your
body." Paul inched closer. "But for the most part, I left you to
yourself, and of that I'm ashamed. I should have visited you,
been a friend, but your uncle ... ah, but those are excuses.
I'm a fool, Kit."

Kit felt Paul's fingertips lightly feathering down the side of

his face. He shivered and moved away, but Paul moved with
him. "David asked me to take care of you. Now that we're
truly stuck together, I mean to make good on my promise. I
won't let the captain hurt you, no, I won't."

"I don't need your help."
"Stubborn lad. Of course you do."
"No, I don't. And I'm not a lad!" Kit struck out at the man

by his side. "I'm fine on my own. I have my plans, and I'll see
them through. You go on with yourself, and I'll handle my
own affairs."

"Your affairs are mine now," Paul whispered, his breath

warm on the side of Kit's face. "And I'll be doing what David
asked of me. His final request before sailing. He said that I
should take care of you ... take his place with you ... he
knew, you see ... knew that I..." Paul stilled. "Kit, let me kiss
you."

Kit jerked in shock. "You must be mad."

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"It's what David wanted," Paul went on steadily. "And truth

be told, it's what I want too. You're the only one who's
protesting, Kit. And while I'll do nothing against your wishes,
please believe me when I tell you that this is what David
asked of me." His hand returned, warm on Kit's skin. "I won't
give you up to some pirate captain and betray David even
further." The hand began to stroke up and down Kit's arm.

Kit shivered, but left the man alone. A strange tingling was

beginning to fill him, the likes of which he hadn't felt since his
last time alone with David.

"Will you let me in, Kit?" Paul pressed. "There's no one to

see or know except you and I. And I'll find a way to protect
you from the captain, I swear." He pushed, lightly, at Kit's
shoulder. "Lie down and let me hold you in my arms. If
nothing else, for my own comfort. I've been torn away from
home and need a bit of comfort of my own."

A stab of guilt lanced through Kit's heart. "I'd had no

intention of you being caught up in this," he confessed. "At
the time I thought nothing of it, but now I realized I should
have called out for your freedom."

"It would have done no good," Paul soothed. "The pirate

had his eye on me as an able-bodied man, and I've the
feeling that he gets whatever it is he might want. It's none of
your fault. I'd say I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,
but I can't, as I was where I belonged. With you." He pushed
a little harder. "Lie down, Kit, and let me take a little ease in
your arms."

The tingling increased. Kit realized with a shock that he

was getting hard for the second time in a day, an amazing

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occurrence when he hadn't been able to do so in months, or
allowed to give himself pleasure at night. Uncle had the
laundress report back to him.

Slowly, he let himself be lowered onto the rough wood

floor. Paul followed close behind, gentle as a lion with his cub,
folding Kit into his arms. "There," he breathed against Kit's
shoulder. "That's better, isn't it? And I won't let you go.
You're safe here with me."

Kit shook his head. "I'm not safe," he blurted. "Not safe at

all, with what the captain has in mind."

"Hush now, hush." Paul began to rock him to and fro.

"We'll see what happens. If you..." He hesitated. "No, no, I
won't ask it of you."

"If you what?" Kit asked, curiosity fizzing among the

tingles. "No, Paul. Whatever you have to say, I want to hear
it."

He heard Paul take a deep breath. "I thought that perhaps

if I had a prior claim on you, then the captain might leave you
alone. If you were my own treasure, I could keep you by
rights."

The breath felt knocked from Kit's lungs. "I—you—"
"Aye, and this is why I didn't want to say anything." Paul

began to rub Kit's back, his hands clumsy but firm, stroking in
an irregular rhythm. "But I've ached after you for ages.
Before David left, even. He knew, you see. That's why he
asked me to watch out for you."

"David wouldn't," Kit whispered, feeling the tingles spread

all the way up to his lips. He realized, startled, that he ached
to be kissed. "Not when he knew he'd be coming back..."

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"He asked me just in case. And I said yes, for the same

reason. And because I wanted to. Kit, can you not let me in?
I'll do you no harm. I'll love you far better than any pirate
could, and with my whole heart." Paul's hands pressed a little
harder. He edged himself closer. Kit felt a shock as Paul's own
engorged cock came into contact with his own.

"David," he breathed. "How do I know you're telling me

the truth?"

"You can't, I suppose." Paul's hands stilled. "But if you

believe me, then please, for the love of God, kiss me. I'm
burning to feel your lips under mine." He paused. "Or do not
push me away when I kiss you."

Kit moaned under his breath, unable to help himself. He

felt as if he were burning with a fire that had been long
damped, and although thoughts of betrayal flitted through his
mind, they dissipated with the first tentative touch of Paul's
mouth to his own. He gave a soft cry into those lips, and was
lost.

Paul took advantage of Kit's sudden pliancy. Tearing his

mouth away from Kit's, he began to press hot kisses up and
down the side of Kit's face, each one leaving a brand. He
licked up the few tears that escaped, murmuring nonsense
words on comfort in a low hum.

Kit raised his arm to grasp onto Paul, hugging him close. It

was just like being in David's arms again, only ... not. Paul
was trimmer and leaner, not so bulky, but just as strong in
his hold. He smelled of the tannery, of home and the scents
of the cape town that Kit had once associated with pure
pleasure.

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He gave a mewl and undulated against Paul, giving himself

up completely. Paul stifled a gasp, and then began to rock
back, rubbing their cocks together. He kissed on and on,
trailing a path down Kit's throat and even the top of his
shoulder before blazing a trail back up. When their lips met a
second time, Kit felt as needy and desperate as he had the
first time with David.

"Paul," he breathed. "Paul, I need. I need."
Paul's free hand came down between them, rubbing

against Kit's cock. "Aye, I know," he replied, voice choked.
"As do I. Give in to me, Kit. Let us both have what we need."

Kit couldn't find the words to answer. Instead, he reached

for Paul and kissed him a second time, pushing their lips
together so hard that their teeth clacked. Paul gave a low
growl and shoved at Kit, rolling him over onto his back.
Poising himself above Kit, weight braced on his arms, Paul
rolled his groin down into Kit's, their cocks bashing together
and stealing Kit's breath away.

"Good?" Paul asked after a few moments filled with

nothing but the sounds of breath coming in quick bursts and
the wet sounds of kissing.

Kit gave a low, strangled cry and nodded his head. Paul

began moving his mouth over Kit again, never ceasing his
thrusting hard against Kit's belly. Kit felt himself to be lighter
than air, no longer weighed down by cares and worries. He
felt a climax coming on, much sooner than he would have
liked, but he couldn't help himself after too long without.

"Paul," he whispered urgently. "Paul, I can't—"

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"Shh," Paul soothed. He kissed Kit with a frenzied passion

and thrust against him. Kit came, his yell stifled in Paul's
mouth, and felt wet warmth spread between them. Paul
stiffened, his own cock jumping against Kit's skin, and then
there was more heat pooling on Kit's belly.

They lay still for a long moment, catching their breath. Kit

thought dazedly of David, and what his last wishes might
have been; of Paul, and this strange urgency that had
overtaken him.

Of the captain, and what he had done. What he might yet

do.

He knew himself for a fool for signing on to this ship. Yet if

he hadn't, would he be in Paul's arms? The answer was no, of
course. This was the definition of danger, but back in the cape
town it would have been suicide.

Paul raised up with a soft, shaky laugh. "I love you," he

whispered. "You needn't say anything in return. But it's true,
I do love you, and I have for a long while now. Months upon
months. And it's heaven itself to have you in my arms. Let
me, and I'll take care of you, come what may. I swear it, Kit.
I swear on my soul."

Kit lay still, his eyes half-shut. "Love me?" he asked,

baffled. "Why would you...?"

Paul kissed him again. "Because you are Kit," he replied.

"A treasure beyond price. Now, hush. I'll hold you until we're
steady again, and then we must get back in our own
hammocks. I'll not risk your safety. Oh! And wash the stain
from your pants. I'll do the same." Paul chuckled. "That would
get us into trouble, wouldn't it?"

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Kit lay in Paul's arms, his thoughts rocking back and forth

with the tide. He flashed between David, Jeremiah, and Paul.
He'd no idea what to do, or where to begin to figure himself
out.

The only thing he knew was that they were in danger.
On a ship full of pirates, as he now believed, who would

hesitate to kill him—both of them—for what they had done
together in defying their captain?

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Chapter Five
"What th' hell d'you think you're doin' down here?" The

door to Kit and Paul's cabin flew open. Kit devoutly thanked
mercy that he and Paul had parted from one another's arms
moments before, leaving no evidence of their early-morning
passion but slightly swollen lips. Paul had even been careful
with his stubble, leaving no burn on Kit's cheeks or chest.

How odd it was to be in another's arms again. Like being

with David, yet an entirely different experience. And it didn't
feel ... wrong. Had anyone asked Kit even the day before if
such a thing was possible, he'd have called them a liar, a
madman, and a fool.

Yet there they were.
Kit started for the door, only to find his way barred. "You

stays where you are," the scrawny but wiry sailor informed
him in a tone that brooked no denial. "Orders of the Cap'n.
But you, you get your arse up on decks and work wi' the rest
of us."

Paul nodded, straightening his shirt. "What am I needed

for?"

"Work, bratling. Good hard work! Now get your rank arse

up on deck before I kicks it there!"

Paul gave Kit one quick look over his shoulder, then

nodded to the sailor. When he went for the door, he was not
stopped. The sailor gave Kit the evil eye, however. "No
matter what you hear, you stays right where you be," he
warned. "Cap'n, he'll have all our hides if you creep out of this
spot. So here you stay."

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Kit nodded mutely, sitting down in the dip of his hammock.

With an effort, he kept his face unconcerned, and did not look
after Paul—although he heard each footfall as the man made
his way back up onto deck. He folded his hands in his lap and
tried his best to look dutiful.

The sailor snorted, spat out a gob of mucus, and slammed

the door shut. After a pause, Kit heard the rattling sound of a
key locking him in. His heart sank. The captain's orders again,
no doubt. The key would be returned to him, joining the
others on his jangling belt.

But what else was he doing? Kit made his way to the

porthole and, although he could not put his head out, put his
ears to good use with listening to all that he was able to hear.

At first, there was nothing but cacophony. Men roaring and

rushing to and fro, their heavy steps loud as cannon-shot.
They seemed to be in a good mood, howling their pleasure
like the wolves Kit had read about in accounts of foreign
lands. "Ship sighted!" he heard, over and over again. "Ship
sighted!"

The noise died down a little as the captain's voice raised

itself above the din. "What of the ship?" he demanded. "Give
me the details."

"She's a fine, fat merchanting vessel," a gruff growl of a

voice answered him, louder than the others clamoring for
attention. "I've just been up in the crow's nest to see for
meself. Full of goods and hostages ripe for the picking."

"Then let us get to the harvest!" Kit imagined he could

hear the captain slap his hands together with glee. "Are they

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in range? Good! Raise the sails. You, you, and you. Let the
Jolly Roger fly before they have the chance to run!"

Kit felt his knees go weak. So it was true. He was on a

pirate ship after all, and thanks to him Paul was now one of
the breed. He had no doubts that the captain wouldn't allow
Paul to stand back, nor that Paul would be fool enough to try.

Neither of them had survived in St. Germaine for as long

as they had by being stupid.

All the same, Kit's heart pounded in his throat as he heard

the men rushing to and fro. A loud ripple filled the air, letting
him know that the sails had been run up. He fancied he could
hear yells and screams from the merchant ship as they
struggled to turn their hull around and run from the pirates.

He had a feeling, though, that Jeremiah would not let them

get away.

The boat rocked choppily, and from his viewpoint Kit could

feel them rushing forward. There were loud creaks of wood,
and then the sound that he had dreaded—the boat-rattling
boom of a cannon. Once, twice, again, and more, shot after
shot. Some fell short of the mark, splashing up vast waves of
blue-green water, but some, he knew, hit their target.

Soon, it was over except for the noise of men hollering in

delight. "Bring her around," the captain ordered. "I'll be back
in a moment. When I've returned, we'll take a group and
board the ship. I'm not in the mood for survivors nor
hostages. Kill all that you find, and bring the goods back
over."

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"And what are you doing first, Cap'n?" the gruff voice from

before answered with a snigger. Probably his first mate, Kit
figured.

The captain laughed loud and long. "I've something to see

to for a bit of luck," he announced with gusto. "I'll be gone
but a minute. The rest of you, on with your work!"

Guffaws broke out. "It'll take more'n a minute with that

one. He's a tight little piece of arse."

"Gonna break his cherry in, Cap'n?"
"Give 'im one for all of us!"
"Show 'im who's in charge around here, Cap!"
"Silence, all of you!" Kit could almost see the cloud of

displeasure around the captain's head. "I'm saving the best
for last. Right now, I'll just have a little taste. Get on with
boarding the ship, and remember, no one gets left to tell the
tale!"

Kit's heart felt coated in lead. What if Paul were among

those ordered to go forth and kill? He knew what that would
do to the man. And worse, what if he were killed himself?
Surely the merchants would have swords and muskets, and
not be afraid to fight back for their lives.

As for himself, he had no doubt that the captain was

coming after him. He hadn't said nay to those cheering him
on, and from what he'd said ... I can't. But how do I refuse
him?

Nausea rose in Kit's stomach, bringing the sour taste of

bile into his mouth. He backed into his hammock and sat
utterly still. Perhaps if he lay down and pretended to be
asleep? No. The captain would either shake him "awake", or

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dress him down for being a liar. No one could have slept
through that tumult.

Not knowing what to do, he waited for his fate to present

itself.

Boots thumped heavily down the stairs. Kit heard the

jingle of keys, and then Jeremiah was flinging the door open,
his face full of almost boyish glee. Vicious glee, though, as if
he were the sort to pull wings off of flies. "You heard it all?"
he shouted. "Aye, now you know what manner of men we
are, don't you? And you know who's got you by the leading-
strings. Come here and give me a kiss, pretty thing."

Kit hesitated. Jeremiah's lips twisted in anger. His temper

was up, Kit could tell, but before he could make a move, the
captain had taken three long strides to Kit's hammock and
hauled him up.

"I won't be so gentle today," Jeremiah growled before

seizing Kit's head and forcing him into a long kiss. He tasted
of tobacco and smelled of gunpowder, a bitter combination
that, together with the embrace, made Kit want to gag. He
kept still and quiescent underneath the embrace, his eyes
shutting automatically.

The captain let him down. Careful of his actions, Kit let his

eyes flutter open. Jeremiah seemed pleased by Kit's
demeanor, and gave him another hearty smack on the
mouth. "Had I time, you'd be lying on your belly with me
plowing between the cheeks of that tight little arse," he said,
smacking the piece of anatomy in question. "But that's for
later. Tonight, in my cabin. For now, you stay put, d'you
hear? Be a good lad during the skirmish. But be warned, if

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you so much as set a foot outside this door, I'll have you
whipped." He roughly caressed Kit's shoulder. "Be a shame to
mark up this pretty skin, but I'll do it." His pleased look
turned into a glare. "Disobey me not, Kit. I'll be good to you if
you obey me, but otherwise, I'll see you dead."

"I—I thought you wanted me," Kit stammered.
"Do I?" The captain of the pirates gave Kit a narrow look.

Reaching for his belt, he slipped a thin dagger out of its
sheath and held it up to Kit's neck. "Lads who disobey me are
only good for one thing," he warned. Then, yanking Kit's head
back by the hair, he placed the point of the dagger against
Kit's throat.

Kit managed not to cry out as he felt a white-hot line of

pain slice its way across his skin. Hot trickles dribbled down
his flesh into his collar—yet he could still breathe. Heaving
great gasps, he stared at the captain, who was sheathing his
dagger.

"Let that be a lesson to you," Jeremiah breathed. "This

was but a scratch. Even think of disobeying me, and I'll go
deep into the meat of your neck. You'll bleed to death at my
feet."

"Captain?" It was Paul's voice. Kit struggled not to react as

he saw Paul appear at the door. Paul's own eyes widened,
probably at the sight of the blood Kit felt dripping down his
neck, and he half-started forward.

Kit desperately signaled with his eyes for Paul not to react.

He saw Paul struggle, then finally give a short nod. "Captain,
the first mate sent me. He says there's gold on the merchant
ship."

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"And when is there not?" Jeremiah snorted and pushed Kit

back down into his hammock. "I'll be there shortly. I've
almost finished my business here."

"Aye, Captain." Paul hesitated for a brief moment, sending

Kit a message with his own gaze. Get out of here. Go, Kit,
run!

Kit sat helplessly still.
"Well? Are you deaf?" The captain turned irately, facing

Paul. "Green as the grass, you are. Get back up on deck and
tell the mate that I'm coming. If there's gold I'll have it, and
everything else besides."

Paul gave Kit one last look, this one blank, as the captain

was facing him, then nodded curtly and headed back up to
the decks. The captain gave a grunt of satisfaction, then half-
turned to look at Kit. "Clean yourself up," he commanded.
"Use your drinking water. I won't have you come to me
tonight crusted with your own blood."

Kit was half afraid to talk, and the thought of nodding

made his stomach churn, but apparently his expression was
all that Jeremiah needed. Turning, the pirate walked out of
the room. The door slammed behind him...

Kit waited...
But the keys didn't jingle. The captain's boots thumped

away, up to the decks and away from him.

Kit felt dizzy and thought that his heart might explode. The

captain had forgotten to lock him in. He had one chance, now,
to find his way up on decks and throw himself over.

Or was that what he wanted, still? Was it what Paul

wanted?

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Kit hesitated. Before the previous night, he would have

flung himself into the ocean without a second thought. It had
been in his mind all along, hadn't it? But now there was Paul
to consider.

Paul, and Jeremiah's promised threat for the night.
He had to find someplace to hide.
It could mean the death of them both, were he to be

caught. But if he were careful ... if he could spy someplace ...
just a hole to tuck himself away in ... God willing, Paul
wouldn't be blamed. God willing, he wouldn't be found. Then
he and Paul could go above decks that night and steal one of
the rowboats, perhaps. They could be away out of there.

If nothing worse happened to them first.
Forgive me, Paul. I hope this is what you were telling me

to do. Kit crossed himself, something he'd stopped doing
years ago, slipped off his own boots, and made for the door
on soft cat feet. He hesitated again with his hand on the
latch, then took a deep breath and eased the door open.

It gave way for him without a squeak. Struggling to control

his breath, Kit slipped out and shut the door behind him. He
could feel his pulse pounding like that of a bird's as he stood,
frozen with hesitation. The one way was out of the question,
but if he went the opposite way, he might be able to find
something. Anything.

Walking lightly, his nerves on a razor edge lest anyone

hear him and raise the hue and cry, Kit treaded down the
narrow corridor. It seemed to be cabins or storage rooms.
Were those customary for a ship like this? Kit didn't know. He
tested locks as he went, finding each one sealed tight.

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Then, he came to a door without any lock at all. The

handle looked slick, as if it had been painted with oil, but
when Paul touched it with a fingertip it seemed dry. Grasping
the latch, he thrust the door open an inch at a time.

The smell hit him first. Sickening, stomach-churning,

nauseating. The stink of a charnel house in mid-summer. The
sickly sweet smell of flesh rotting. Dear God, what is in here?

A small voice in the back of Kit's mind told him to run, run

away, run back to his cabin and stay there. But the same
stubbornness that had won him a place on this ship refused to
go under to fear. He pushed the door a little further open,
using his whole palm on the handle, and slipped inside.

And choked back a wave of vomit.
Bodies. The walls were lined with bodies. Men shackled by

their wrists from every wall, each one of them small and
blond. Some were mere skeletons with only shreds of meat
remaining, but some were fresher, fouler, and on those Kit
could see that their throats had all been cut. One looked only
recently dead, his blue eyes open in a glassy stare.

In fact, he didn't look more than a day passed on...
Kit reached out to touch the lad without thinking. The ship

pitched without warning and his hand landed hard against the
dead chest. Kit stifled a yell, then took his palm away.

It was red, and wet. Blood not yet completely dried. The

lad seemed to look at him with an expression of betrayal, as if
asking why such a thing had happened to him. What had he
done to deserve such a punishment?

Dear God. This one must have been killed the very day

before. Kit put a hand to his own throat. When the Captain

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had chosen him, had he decided to do away with this young
blond? Fair of face and more than likely once full of grace,
now he was slack-jawed in death, and the smell of him...

Kit stumbled back and away. Out of the waves of his

churning thoughts, he believed he heard men starting to run
above decks again. Oh, God! If there were storage rooms
down here, he surely would be caught. And he'd not hide in a
room full of dead men. He couldn't.

Rushing out, latching the door firmly behind him, Kit made

a bolt for his own cabin. He had barely gotten inside when he
heard men start making their way down the steps, cheering
one another on in ribald good nature. Their footfalls were
heavy, as they were no doubt weighed down by booty from
the merchant ship.

Kit sat on his hammock, hands wet with blood, and tried to

breathe. He wanted to run his fingers through his hair, but he
had to wash, had to get this off his fingers...

All his fingers?
Turning his hands palms up, Kit examined them both. The

left one, that which had touched the dead man's chest, that
was covered with the lad's own blood. But the other?

It, too, dripped red. How? Why?
Kit shook his head, winced at the pain in his neck, and

rushed for the basin of drinking water left for he and Paul to
use. Plunging both hands in, he saw the water turn crimson.
Although it stung, he dashed handfuls against his neck and let
the water wash down his chest. Frantic, he pulled off his shirt
and began to scrub at his hands, his neck, everywhere that

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had blood. The water finally ran clean off his throat, and he
raised his hands to look at them.

He stared. They couldn't still be bloody. So much had

washed off already. But by God, both were still smeared
liberally with red.

It couldn't be.
Paul scrubbed hard at the palms of his hands with his

soiled shirt, rubbing until his skin was raw, but to no avail.
The smudges remained. What magic or devilry was this?

The kind that leads a man to murder when he spies a new

toy to play with.

The kind that the captain will know about as soon as he

summons you tonight.

And he will summon you, make no mistake.
Break the bowl and finish the job on your throat. Open

your wrists as well.

But Paul?
Paul will be better off without you. He still has a chance.

You, on the other hand, have none.

Kit shook his head. The voice chanting inside his mind

didn't sound like his own. More witches' tricks! Well, he
wouldn't be defeated. He'd keep on working at the blood.
Even if he wore through the skin of his hands, he'd wash
away the stain.

And then ... and then ... and then...
Oh, God. Kit did tug at his hair. There is no escape for me.

None.

Paul, God help us both!

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Chapter Six
"I have never regretted an act so much in my mortal life,"

Paul was saying as the same wiry sailor of the morning let
him into the cabin Kit shared with him. The pirate gave a
snarl and pushed Paul hard in the back, causing him to
stumble forward.

"It's good hard work you've been doing today," the sailor

griped. "When you put your back into it, you're not half bad.
But another day of hanging back and wringing your hands like
a fine lady, why, that'll get you overboard on this ship. Cap'n
says you're to think about that long and hard."

Paul turned to glare at his escort. "Are you quite finished?"
The sailor spat on Paul's boots. "Aye, now I am." He

snickered and made his way out of the cabin. The door closed
and a key rattled as they were locked in. Kit sat where he had
been since he'd given up trying to wash the bloody stains off
his hands—pressed tight into one corner, his palms hidden
from sight.

"Kit, I'll go to my grave hearing those men scream when

they were spitted like dogs." Paul sank into his hammock with
a groan. "All for the sake of a few trinkets and some gold. The
way they panicked and began to run about when the black
flag flew up—Kit, we're in such trouble here. I heard what
they call the captain for true—Black Bluebeard. He's not so
well known as others, but he's a vicious bastard. And he'd got
his eyes on you as another treasure." Paul turned his head.
"Kit? Where are you?"

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Kit shook his head and let out a low noise. "Kit!" In a flash,

Paul was kneeling in front of him, trying to reach for his hand.
Kit refused and held them tighter against his body.

Paul pressed a kiss to his forehead. "That bastard," he

breathed. "If he's been taking advantage of you, then I'll
have his head no matter how many pirates I have to go
through to get to him. But what's this? Kit, your neck." Gentle
hands probed. "What's happened here?"

* * * *

"A—a warning," Kit managed to get out, laughter

threatening to overwhelm his voice. Paul was so warm and
comforting, even stained with the grime of a long day's toil
and smudged with dark smears of what Kit knew would be
blood. "You didn't take any lives yourself, did you?"

Paul shook his head. "Not a one, no. It earned me a

reprimand, but I only fought for my own life. My hands are
clean."

A hysterical giggle did escape Kit at that. "Clean hands,"

he mumbled, tucking them tight and beginning to rock
slightly. "At least one of us is unspoiled."

"Kit." Paul reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind

Kit's ear. "Has the captain done anything to you besides this?
Bad as it is, has he done anything more?"

Kit shook his head. "Worse? Oh yes, yes. So much worse."
Paul regarded him for a moment. "To you?" he asked. "You

have the look of someone who's seen something terrible, who
can't quite believe what their eyes have witnessed. I've seen

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it on men who've returned from wars. You found your way
out of the cabin, didn't you? What did you find?"

Kit laughed again, unable to help himself.
Paul steadied him with a solid hand to each forearm. "Kit,

you must tell me. Otherwise I can't help you."

"You can't help me at all. And no one can help them." Kit

swallowed, his dry throat painful. "Jeremiah forgot to lock me
in after he did—this." Kit gestured to his throat. "I was
upset."

"As you rightly should have been. Is the wound deep?"
"It's not mortal. Yet." Kit shuddered. "But I found a room,

Paul. A room full of young blond men chained up by their
wrists, hanging there as they rotted. One of them only freshly
dead. Perhaps a day or two."

He could almost hear the mental tumblers clicking into

place in Paul's mind. "That bastard," he swore. "So that's his
game, is it? Find a pretty blond prize, use him up, and then
kill him. Find another and start again."

"I suppose whenever one demands too much, or objects to

being kept a prisoner..." Kit shivered. "He probably kept them
in this very cabin. I've been sleeping in a dead man's bed.
Several dead men."

"How many bodies were there?"
"Twelve? Fifteen? He's been doing this for a long time,

Paul. And that's not all." Kit forced himself to let go and
raised his hands, both still smeared with red. "I got the one
smudge when I touched a dead body, and one when I
grasped the handle of the door. 'Tis some kind of witchery.

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They won't come off, no matter what I do or how hard I
wash. It's the captain's way of making sure his secret is safe."

Paul took Kit's hands carefully in his own. He rubbed a

fingertip over each irregular splash of blood. "Kit, when the
captain sees this, your life is naught but forfeit." He shook his
head. "I won't let that happen."

"How can you stop it? We're both locked in, and the

captain's going to be coming for me any minute, now that
night has fallen. And if he knows that you know—oh, God,
forgive me, Paul—he'll have you dead as well." Kit reached up
to touch Paul's short black hair, then stopped short. "I
daren't. Not with these hands."

"There may be a temporary solution." Paul dug into his

pocket. He came out with a pair of lady's gloves in a slightly
soiled white. "I found these among a trunk of several hundred
others. The captain deemed them unworthy of carrying back
to the ship, but I filched a pair because I though they were
pretty. I meant them as a gift to you."

Kit took the gloves, staring at them. "Do you think the

captain will be fooled by such a ruse?"

"Perhaps not for long," Kit admitted. "Kit, I have a

proposal in mind. Once you're up on decks, break free and
run for the side. Throw yourself over."

"Kill myself?"
"No, no." Paul helped Kit smooth the gloves on his tell-tale

hands. "But I saw when we were outside today that there's an
island not too far away. Perhaps a couple of miles. You're a
strong swimmer, aren't you? You can make it to landfall even
in the dark."

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"But to leave you behind?"
"I'll find a way to follow after," Paul promised. "Kit, you

must swear. If you have the slightest chance of throwing
yourself over the side, do it. Kick off your boots and swim for
the island. A black mass in the distance. You can do this; I'm
sure you can."

"I wouldn't leave you." Kit allowed himself to stroke Paul's

face, to cup his cheeks. "My heart still grieves for David, but
you own a part of it now. I won't see you put to danger at my
own expense."

Paul's grin flashed forth. "I'll be all right," he said

recklessly. "I'll wait to hear the splash, and then I'll break
loose."

There came a heavy knocking on the door. "Time for you

to pay the wages of your voyage," Jeremiah called, his voice
deceptively pleasant and sing-song. "Kit, I'm opening the
door now. I expect you to come to me meek as a lamb. Are
we clear?"

Paul and Kit shared a quick look. Kit nodded, and Paul

surged forward to kiss him hard, fast, deep. They parted a
second before the door opened. Jeremiah stalked in, and put
his hands on his hips. "You, sailor. Why are you hovering over
my prize?"

Paul stood straight-shouldered. "He's wounded, sir. I

wanted to see if he needed assistance. That scratch on his
neck could go septic."

"I wouldn't worry about such a thing." Jeremiah seized

Paul by his own throat. "You, on the other hand, need to take
care about what you handle. This lad is mine, and I'll have no

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other hands on him." He narrowed his eyes. "Fancy yourself
in love, do you?"

Paul shook his head, straight-faced. Jeremiah gave him a

dark look. "A valiant try," he gave in at last. "But I won't have
anything putting this boy at risk. Men!" he shouted. "Men, to
me!"

Several burly sailors pounded down below deck, all dark

with sweat, dirt and blood. Their faces were haggard, but
their grins savage and expressive. Their leader tugged at his
forelock. "What is it you be needin', captain?"

"This one," Jeremiah said, raising Paul a little by the grasp

on his throat. "He's got his eye on my special prize, I do
believe. We can't have that, now can we? Eh, men?"

The rag-tag group of pirates began to snigger, pushing

each other back and forth. "No, that we can't," their leader
said. "What shall we do with 'im, Cap'n?"

Jeremiah pushed Paul toward the men. "He's of no use as

a pirate, and he's threatening what I've claimed as my own.
Toss him overboard and let that be a lesson to all who come
near my prize."

"No! Paul!" Kit stood up on legs that were still a bit shaky.

"You can't do this."

"So, I was right." The captain's expression took on a

expression still more severe than before. "One more word out
of you, and I'll have my dagger out again."

"Kit, don't," Paul said firmly. "I'll be fine."
"Fine as you can be, floatin' at the bottom of the sea," one

man hooted as they grabbed Paul into a stronghold—a grasp

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that was wholly unnecessary, as Paul went willingly. "No
sense fightin' us, now."

"I'm not fighting." Paul's eyes were calm. "Kit, I won't

forget you. Don't you forget me, or what's passed between
us."

The captain roared. "Overboard! Now, before I lose what

remains of my patience." The men began to shove Paul away.
They dragged him up the stairs, leaving Kit all alone with the
captain.

Kit stood still and tried to face the man down as if he were

Uncle. Everything had gone so wrong, from that first blow of
the cane—no, from David's death—until now, when his second
chance at happiness was being condemned to perish in the
deep, deep waters. But he'd face his fate like a man, not
some sniveling child. He folded his arms across his chest and
stuck out his chin as the captain drew closer.

"You are mine," Jeremiah whispered before seizing Kit's

chin and dragging him into a kiss. He tasted just as bitter as
before, his tongue twisting like a worm against Kit's lips. Kit
took a deep breath and opened to let him in, but his own
tongue remained quiescent.

"Well? Kiss back like a man!" the captain demanded. He

gave Kit a shake, jarring the wound on his neck.

Kit pretended innocence. "I—I don't know what you

mean," he said with his most wide-eyed stare. "I thought this
was..."

"Hunh." The captain sniffed. "So, you've a lot to learn.

Good thing that you're in for a proper lesson tonight, isn't it?
Perhaps you and this Paul never went too far. I like my prizes

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unspoiled." He grinned, his teeth appallingly white in his blue-
black beard. "You've been tainted, but you'll do. For tonight,
anyway." He grasped Paul by the hand. "Up and across decks
to my cabin, boy. I'm in the mood to fuck that ass of yours
and fuck it hard. Have you ever been cored out, boy? There's
no one with a cock like mine, and you'll remember me for the
rest of your life."

Paul held back a shudder. "I know I will," he said in all

honesty.

The captain chuckled, the sound full of menace. "Oh, I

know you will. You're too much of a risk to keep around for
long, but I'll enjoy you while I have you."

Kit's mind flashed back to the roomful of men hanging like

sides of meat. The fear must have shown in his eyes, because
the captain hooted in amusement. "What do you think I'll do
with you, pretty Kit? Tie you up and toss you over with your
friend?" A loud splash rent the air. "And there he goes, with
his wrists and ankles bound, no doubt, sinking to the bottom
of the deep blue sea." He got a firmer grasp on Kit. "And now,
you come along with me."

Kit's pulse raced as he walked in front of the captain, the

man's hand pushing hard on his back. Going up the stairs and
back into the fresh air would have been heaven if not for the
awful certainty of what was to happen. He'd be raped,
brutalized, and then possibly killed.

And Paul was gone ... Paul...
The captain stopped at a group of laughing sailors who

were hanging over the railing, pointing and laughing. "What's
all this here?"

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The tallest of them, who Kit recognized from downstairs,

pointed at the water. "He's a stubborn bastard, he is. Got the
rope off his wrists, which must have hurt like a bitch, and now
he's treading water. No idea what he's waiting on. Go ahead
and die like a man!" he shouted.

Paul struggled, hope flaring in his heart. Was Paul waiting

for him?

"You want to look, do you?" the captain sneered. "Very

well, then." He pushed Paul to the railing. "Look down and
see the face of a devil as he drowns."

Paul couldn't make out much. Just the sight of a head

bobbing in the darkness. The creaking and rocking of the ship
was too loud to hear if Paul was sputtering for breath, but he
could imagine it and it made his heart ache.

Throw yourself overboard, he heard Paul say in his mind.

This would be his chance. If he only had room to maneuver...

He put both his hands on the rail without thinking. Two

white gloves in the darkness.

The captain pounced on him. "What's this, then? Gloves?

Do you fancy yourself a fine lady, to keep your hands
protected?"

"They're—they're nothing," Kit stuttered. "A gift..."
"I'll have nothing from him lingering about your person."

The captain made a face twisted with anger. "Have those
gloves off, this very instant, or I'll slice them from your
palms."

Kit's own temper was up as he watched Paul's head in the

darkness. "Go ahead and cut them, then!" he cried. "I'll not
take them off otherwise."

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by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

295

The captain reached for his dagger. "If you want to do this

the hard way," he breathed, bringing the slim knife up and
slipping it under the cuff at Kit's wrist. A trickle of blood ran
down Kit's arm from where the captain had been deliberately
careless.

The pirates surrounding them hooted with laughter. "My

mistake," the captain said with a small smile. "Now, off with
the rest of them." He cut quickly, slicing both gloves down the
palms, and dragged them off Kit's hands.

Kit stood utterly still, waiting for the worst to happen.
The captain's face went pale as he saw the splotches of

blood on Kit's palms. "This can't be," he breathed. "You were
locked in your cabin all the while. How did you find that
place? What manner of devil are you?"

"One who knows how to get through an open door," Kit

flung back. He struggled to get his hands back. "You left my
cabin unlocked when you went back up for the prizes off that
ship. I found my way down the corridor, and there I was."

The captain slapped a hand over Kit's mouth. "You won't

say it," he threatened. "No one speaks of it and lives."

Kit bit his palm. With a hiss, Jeremiah drew back and

struck him hard across the cheek. "Well, then," he snarled,
"it's a shame, isn't it? I had tonight all planned out. A good
dinner to fill your belly, and then a night of decadence
between then sheets on my bed."

"A night in which you would have taken me against my

will," Kit flung back. He could see pirates surrounding them,
pressing in on all sides.

Galleons and Gangplanks

by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

296

The captain snarled at the lot, warning them back. He

lifted his dagger and pressed the point just above Kit's heart.
"Meddlesome brat. If you had but stayed put, you might have
lived."

"Yes, but for how long? Better a clean death than being

pinned up like one of your trophies."

That speech earned him another hard blow. Kit spat blood

and a chip of tooth from his mouth, momentarily dazed. "I go
in there and I think of what might have been if they'd obeyed
me," the captain breathed. "You, though, aren't even worthy
of their company."

"What do you plan to do with me?" Kit fired back, spitting

more blood. His jaw ached fiercely. "A knife to the heart?
Burial at sea?"

The captain hesitated, and that was all that Kit needed.

Planting both hands on either side of Jeremiah's face, he
pressed down hard. As he lifted away, he saw the scarlet
stains on his hands transferred to the man's cruelly
handsome face, glowing red and hot as coals.

The captain cursed and stumbled back. And, with his

precious second of freedom, Kit wrenched around, grabbed
the railing, and flipped himself over, the wood tumbling
beneath him and then nothing but the sensation of falling.

When he hit the water, it was with a hard smack that stole

the breath from his body, He sank underneath, unable to
recover from the shock ... until a hand seized him and pulled
him up. He stared into a pair of warm brown eyes. Paul's
eyes.

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by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

297

"Shh," the man said, "We're under the side of the ship. No

one will be able to see us here. The water's cold, but we can
wait for a good while, at least until they've stopped looking.
Let them think we've drowned. When the moon has passed its
midnight hour, we'll swim for the island I mentioned. You and
I together, Kit."

He swam forward a stroke to touch Kit with cold but tender

fingers. "If you choose to stay with me, it won't be an easy
life. But we can be together. Either way, I'll help you make it
safely to shore."

Kit shook his head. "No. And not just for David's sake." He

touched Paul back. "This is for the both of us," he whispered.
"You've saved me twice now. I won't forget, and I won't let
you go. Come on. If we move with the waves, away from the
light of the moon, we can swim now. Even if they did mount
the cannons and shoot at us, they'd never hit us in the dark.
We make for the island now."

Paul grinned and shook his head, water droplets flying.

"You are a remarkable man, Kit," he said before leaning
forward to kiss and be kissed. Kit slid his hand around Paul's
chest, holding him close.

Their future would be a dangerous one, it was true. But his

fortunes had been much-improved already, and there was
nowhere to go but up from there.

He and Paul would make this work. Through ships and

islands and possible rescue or death in one another's arms,
they would be together as David had wished, and as Kit
himself desired.

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by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

298

They had a future together, and it began at that very

moment.

Laughing under their breath, the two struck out for shore.

Galleons and Gangplanks

by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

299

Contributors
Sean Michael: Often referred to as "Space Cowboy" and

"Gangsta of Love" while still striving for the moniker of
"Maurice," Sean Michael spends most days surfing, smutting,
organizing a vast gourd collection and fantasizing about one
day retiring on a small secluded island peopled entirely by
horseshoe crabs.

Sean's stories have appeared in Bus Stories and Other

Tales and in Shifting as well as on Torquere Press' Turn of the
Screw. Novels include Three Day Passes, Tempering, Fine as
Frog Hair and The Center of Earth and Sky, Where Flows the
Water, Second Sight, Catching a Second Wind and Out of the
Closet.

Julia Talbot: Julia Talbot has been assimilated by Texas,

and find joys in the simple things. Shiner beer, Bluebonnets,
bullriders, and new cowboy boots. Julia has appeared in
numerous anthologies, and is the author of the popular
Thatcher brothers' series, including Jumping Into Things,
Landing with Both Feet, and Taking the Leap

Mychael Black: Mychael has been writing gay erotica for

several years. When not writing, Mychael can usually be
found researching or brainstorming. Mychael's favorite
subjects of research are: Medieval history, Welsh history,
Welsh culture, Welsh language, Swords, Castles, Archaeology,
Celtic history, Celtic mythology, Vampires and vampire
mythologies, Magick, Christian mysteries, Angels, and other
such topics. Mychael welcomes feedback and will gladly
answer all messages.

Galleons and Gangplanks

by Julia Talbot, Willa Okati, Sean Michael

300

Willa Okati: Willa Okati lives by the quotation: "When I

have a little money, I buy books. If there's any left over, I
buy food and clothes". An avid reader since she was able to
pick up a book, she spends just as much time writing stories
about men, women, and the fun they get up to together.

Physically, she lives in North Carolina, but mentally thrives

in a world where each adventure is bigger and brighter than
the next. She is also owned by far too many cats, but she
insists that they serve as emissaries from the Muse and can't
spare a one of them.

If you are connected to the Internet, take a

moment to rate this eBook by going back to

your bookshelf at www.fictionwise.com.

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