Mutiny of the Heart Page 2

  One mistake.

  One fucking mistake got him here.

  He should have never trusted Jackson. Intuition had told him—no, screamed at him—that Jackson would one day turn on him. Ricker had sailed under him for two years. Jackson depended on him for his navigational and map reading skills. They’d cruised all through the West Indies, drawing up detailed maps under the commission of one country or other. They had become friends.

  Or so Ricker thought.

  He should’ve known the coward would cross him to save his own skin. He’d warned Jackson not to try to outrun the French corsairs. Corsairs murdered captains who fled to set examples. Jackson didn’t heed Ricker’s advice, the fool. They would not make it far before they were overtaken by the corsairs. Jackson, pleading for his life, lied about being captain. He claimed to be Ricker, instead, knowing that a man of Ricker’s map-making talents would likely be spared. The pirates found Jackson out and killed him anyway. Ricker would have loved a chance at the honor himself.

  Now here he sat. Right back where he swore he’d never be again—a slave.

  A woman! Sold into slavery to a woman. A beautiful woman. He’d caught sight of her weaving through the crowd. ’twould be hard to miss her. She was taller than the average woman, but not too tall, and she moved with determined yet graceful steps. ’twas her fiery red hair that drew his notice. Ricker could almost feel her curious emerald gaze roaming across his body as she’d approached the platform.

  She was a nice distraction to the humiliation inflicted upon him—until she opened the purse strings.

  What designs did she have for him? No matter. ’twould only be temporary. Of that, he was certain. He’d bide his time, be patient. How hard could it be? She was a bit of fluff, after all. Surely he could win her favor with a little charm. When the opportunity presented itself, he’d force his freedom. An uprising against his proprietor. Just as he had before with his first master. He would be as free as the trade winds he loved so much and return to his passion surveying coastlines and drawing up maps. This time, he’d choose whom to cast his lot with more carefully.

  Damn you, Jackson.

  The cell door grated open against the rusty hinges. A giant filled the threshold. Black as pitch and larger than any man he’d ever seen.

  “Come.” The behemoth’s voice rumbled in the small cell.

  Ricker snorted. So it began. He rose slowly and met the man at the door. A colossal fellow, he had to duck his head to enter Ricker’s cell. Ricker stared hard into his dark, emotionless eyes, unable to read the level of danger. Not that it was of consequence. Not by his thick muscles corded taut under his smooth ebony skin.

  Stepping aside for Ricker to pass, the beast pointed for a jailer to remove his leg shackles.

  “T’e collar, too,” he said.

  His keeper was confident Ricker would not try to escape. He needn’t worry. That was a desperate, cowardly thing to do. Too often Ricker’d watched as some poor dolt made a break for it only to either be shot in the back or caught and strung up by his neck. Besides, Ricker fled from nothing. Nothing.

  “Sam, is it?” He recalled hearing the red-head say the name.

  The man slightly nodded, as if the very weight of his head might tip off his thick neck.

  “Obliged.” Ricker rolled his neck, loosening bunched muscles. He hadn’t realized how much his shoulders ached under the burden of the iron collar.

  “Manacles, too?” asked the jailer.

  Sam shook his head. “Don’t know what t’e capt’n wants wit’ ’im.”

  “Captain? As in captain of a ship?” Was that a smile flickering across Sam’s mug?

  That was either very good or very bad for Ricker. A woman, captaining her own ship. Did she have a steadfast, loyal crew or a ragtag and bobtail group of estranged tars? He hoped for the latter. Better to stir up trouble with a bunch of traitorous deckhands.

  Oh, how he wanted to cause trouble for his new master.

  Master. The thought of answering to anyone as master again, most especially a woman, churned in his gut, fermenting the entire way from the jail to the ship—his new hell.

  Sam spoke not a word, not even as he led Ricker onto the ship, motioning for him to sit on a barrel. ’twas just as well. Ricker was not in a talkative mood. His questions about his master and what was expected of him would be answered soon enough. Instead, he studied his surroundings.

  Creaking lanyards, groaning planks, smacking wood boxes and the shuffle of busy feet kept steady pace with the cacophony of other port noises. The ship’s bare masts reached high to the cloudless sky. Decks were clean. Miles of ropes looped neatly around belay pins.

  Seemed the captain kept her craft in top order.

  A few crewmen began loading crates and kegs, likely provisions, onto the ship.

  “Whatcha got there, Sam?” A ridiculously short man with a cane toddled off the boarding plank, favoring one leg, perhaps from an old injury.

  Sam took up a spot leaning against the mast. “T’e slave,” he said.

  “So this is the lad Capt’n Jo went an’ bought. Wonder what’s so special ’bout ’im to make her do that?”

  Going ashore must have been an occasion as the little man, not quite a dwarf, but damn close, was smartly dressed in a bright green vest and clean breeches. His wiry gray beard had been combed and had—what’s that?—red bows tied into it?

  “Well? What’s so special ’bout ya, boy?”

  Ricker looked between the tiny man and the behemoth. “My size, perchance?”

  “Eh, Sam. I think this skipjack just insulted us.” He growled as much as a crotchety old man might.

  “T’at he did, Henri.”

  “Ain’t too smart, are ya, boy?”

  Ricker needed to hold his tongue if he planned to get in with the crew. “I reckon you’ll need to ask your captain why I’m here. What does she do with the other slaves on board?” The answer might tell Ricker how easily and how long it would take him to turn the slaves against this Captain Jo. He jutted his chin to Sam. “What does she do with you?”

  Sam’s back stiffened. Ricker swore the man rose another foot in height. “Ain’t no slaves on board t’e Rissa.”

  Rissa? Saint’s blood! The devil had gone and snared him in a wicked net.

  “That’s right,” the stubby jack said. “By the look there on yer mug, I’d say you’ve heard of us.”

  Ricker scanned the battle-scarred faces of the crew with a mix of reverence and trepidation. “Tarry-breeks and shore men alike have heard of the infamous Rissa and her legendary crew.” All who entered Caribbean waters were served tales of the pirate ship, tales that reached the colonies and back across the Atlantic to Europe. She was formidable, fast and treasure-laden. Story had it that though the ship was draped in fortune, she was, too, draped in superstition. ’twas said each time she weighed anchor to claim a bounty, she demanded the soul of one on board. Many believed ’twas worth the risk. Those who captained her were revered as rulers of the sea.

  Henri puffed his chest up in pride, buttons straining against the vest’s eyelets. “Legendary...I like the sound of that.”

  A noise, low and deep, came from Sam. Was he amused?

  Henri turned a sharp eye back to Ricker and frowned. “Well, the capt’n must have a good reason for wastin’ coin on ya.”

  Whatever the reason, Ricker was certain this was the beginning of the end of his servitude. Be it death or damnation.

  * * *

  “’Tis all there. I promise.” Smithy placed a pouch in the center of the table.

  No one in the room cared to notice the clandestine exchange taking place at the back table of The Paladin’s Inn. Patrons were too busy deep in their cups. Some played cards. Others threw coins and suggestive offers to the girls kicking up their skirts to the lively music of a harpsichord player. The keep was dragging a foxed fellow—one hand fisting his collar, the other on his breeches—out the door.

  “I didn’t even take a
peek inside,” Smithy said.

  Joelle didn’t believe that bilge for a moment. Vermin like Smithy were always guilty, most especially when they claimed otherwise. His small fiendish eyes lingered a beat too long on the pouch. As she bunched it up into her hand, his stare rose to fix upon hers. Quickly, he averted his attention to picking at his filthy nails.

  Inside the leather pouch gleamed a dozen gold guineas—the advance for her latest commission. The pair of sapphire earrings was a nice touch.

  On an agitated sigh, she said, “Hand over the coin, Smithy.”

  Shock registered across his face, splotches of red appeared on his pock-marked cheeks.

  “I...”

  Valeryn placed his pistol on the table and leaned forward. “Do as she says, friend.”

  Joelle could smell fear mingled with his sweat, permeating the stench of body odor, brew and tobacco staining the tavern’s air. She wasn’t certain he had stolen a coin. ’twas impossible for petty rodents to resist thieving when opportunity was at hand.

  “M’ apologies.” Smithy’s words tumbled out faster than he could fish the stolen coin from his pocket. “I meant no harm. Just so many coins—”

  “That you didn’t think I’d miss one. Big mistake, Smithy. Now I know it to be true. You can’t be trusted.”

  “Please, Capt’n Quint. I-I am sorry.” Smithy flashed a worried glance to Valeryn whose hand still rested on his pistol. “P-please don’t hurt me.”

  Groveling, how Joelle hated to see a man grovel.

  “Here.” Smithy dug in his pocket once more, retrieving two farthings and a silver bracelet. No telling where the snip stole them from. “Please, take this.”

  “Bribery won’t save you.” She scooped the items up and dropped them into the pouch. “I’ll take them none the less. For my troubles.”

  Valeryn chuckled. No doubt appreciating the turn of the screw she had on Smithy.

  “Let me make sure I understand,” she continued, tying the pouch into the sash at her waist. “The Mariposa owned by your, shall we say, employer, Lord Dominick English, a spy for the Royal Navy, was en route from Hispaniola when her crew mutinied. The traitorous bastards were unaware of the correspondence hidden on board. Correspondence meant for Commodore Crowe here on Tortola of the Spanish fleet’s movement possibly making its way to Gibraltar.” Fortifying allegiances with their largest enemy, His Majesty’s navy, by thwarting a Spanish attack on the British territory could be beneficial later. Pardons and good faith were always in demand by the brethren.

  “This is a Royal Navy affair. Why don’t they clean up their own mess?” Valeryn asked.

  Joelle shook her head. “’Twould rouse curiosity. Perhaps they worry to alert the Spanish, as they have so many rats scurrying these ports.”

  “Aye. Rats seem to be everywhere.” Valeryn’s gaze bore into Smithy. “Why’d he send you, a pewling ninny?”

  The foolish man squirmed in his seat, eyes sliding from Valeryn to Joelle. “Me mother lives in a house on Lord English’s land. If I don’t do his bidding, me mother’d be out on her ear.”

  Valeryn chuckled. “Got ya by the bollocks, does he?”

  Joelle intervened, saving the stammering lackey from answering. “So he sent you to us.”

  “Lord English says yer the best at huntin’ down mut’neers,” Smithy said. “Since yer for hire...” He shrugged off.

  “The Rissa will be paid handsomely for the retrieval of this information?” Joelle asked.

  “That’s right.” Smithy nodded. “Commodore Crowe will have the rest of yer payment when ya get him the letter.” When he would say more, a serving wench approached and he shrank back into his chair.

  The girl set a fresh flagon of ale on the table and bent low for a gratuitous view of her bosom, smiling at Valeryn.

  Valeryn gave the girl his most charming smile. “Thank you, sweetling.”

  “’Tis me pleasure, sir.” She giggled, retreating from their table in an overabundance of swaying hips.

  The stupid grin she adored still on his lips, Valeryn winked at Joelle. ’twas difficult to suppress a smile of her own. Instead, she kicked him under the table. Insufferable rake.

  Smithy fidgeted in his seat, licking his lips as he stared at the pitcher of ale. “Tell, me,” Joelle said. “What’s the name of these mutineers’ leader? Who is their captain?”

  “Not sure,” Smith answered.

  “A description?” she asked.

  The timid fellow glanced over both shoulders and lowered his voice. “They say he’s as tall as an oak tree with black whips as hair and red blazing eyes—a soulless ruffian.”

  He’d have to be to lead a band of rogues. Would be a disappointment, otherwise. “Where would I find this information on board the Mariposa?”

  Smithy leaned in, his odor invading her space again. “Don’t know fer sure.” Smithy scratched his head. Little rodent probably had lice. “Somewhere in the capt’n’s quarters,” he said, and motioned to the flagon. “May I?”

  Joelle nodded. “Go on.”

  “Word on the docks is the Mariposa’s runnin’ ’tween here and Trinidad, raidin’ a few small seaside villages.”

  Joelle had heard that, too. The Caribbean pirate brethren didn’t take too kindly to other pirates in their waters.

  “Anything else?”

  “Lord English...” He dribbled ale on his hand as he poured. Like a beggar child, he quickly licked his wrist of the brew, dirt and all. “Lord English also said show no quarter to the mut’neers.”

  Joelle wasn’t in the business of killing. She and her men took lives only as a necessity. Never as sport. ’twould be unfortunate should the lads on Mariposa resist when Joelle found them. She would take every measure possible to see they surrendered peacefully. Most quarries did the moment Rissa’s colors were hoisted. Only a few resisted and they didn’t live long enough to regret it.

  If she were to get this correspondence to Commodore Crowe before any Spanish ships had a chance to leave Caribbean waters, time was of great importance. Especially with other pirates hunting down the Mariposa.

  “That it?”

  “Aye, Capt’n Quint.”

  “Tell your Lord English we have an accord. A month, then.”

  Smithy took a leisurely quaff from his cup. Far too relaxed now that his job was done.

  Annoyed, she drummed her fingers on the table. “Is there something else?”

  Smithy shrugged. “Nay.”

  “She means for you to take your leave, ya pimple,” Valeryn said. “Make haste before I put a boot in your arse.”

  Smithy popped up from his seat, almost knocking it over, and scurried out of the tavern.

  Rodents—how she despised them. She couldn’t deny bastards like Smithy helped pad her fortune, a fortune others depended upon.

  “What do you make of it, Jo?” Valeryn’s brow crimped in skepticism. “Sounds like an easy venture.”

  “Almost too easy.” A commission usually had many more moving components. This one, however, was as simple as engaging an enemy and forcing surrender. Not that she was given to believe the Rissa would not fire her shipboard guns. The men had been itching for action and rogue pirates were just the thing to stir them up.

  “We’d be foolish to pass on such a lucrative endeavor. But we should be mindful. Smithy might not be telling us all we need to know.”

  “Speaking of fools, I know why you bought the slave. Jo, you’ve got to stop.” He placed a hand on her thigh. An intimate gesture—one meant to comfort, one born of concern. She needed neither from him.

  Oh, hang it. Here it comes. She sank back into her chair and took a long swill from her cup. The ale left a stout bitter taste. ’twas good, but not strong. Nowhere near dulling her senses. Most especially the ability to drown out Valeryn and his impending lecture.

  “Stop chasing ghosts,” he said. “Stop letting them destroy you.”

  Ghosts. Did he not know how these ghosts haunted her? Not just in her drea
ms, but in every day the sun rises. With each passing ship, she wondered if her father was on board, searching for the daughter he left behind. In every port, she saw a mother with a child, and Joelle’s heart clamped tight, wondering why had she been denied her mother’s love? How could they have abandoned her?

  She was certain she’d find answers in the few things she still had of her family—a strongbox, an emerald. And the map. If she didn’t, she’d surely become a stark-raving lunatic.

  “This slave. Do you think he’ll be your answer?” Valeryn asked. “Nay, I think not. He’ll be as worthless as the last—”

  “Shut your clack, you hear?” She leaned into him, so close she could smell the brew on his lips and his maddening, delicious salty scent. “What you need to remember, V, is that I am not some little pullet—” she nodded toward the serving girl flashing coy smiles at her first mate, “—that needs your mollycoddling. I don’t need you casting judgment upon me either.”

  He removed his hand, his jaw set tight. Aye, she angered him. Angered him when he had her best interest at heart. Truth be told, he was right. She needed to let her past go, let the memories of being abandoned die. But like hell would she let Valeryn know it.

  “That slave, he’s mine. I’ll do with him as I please. With or without your consent.”

  Chapter Two

  Not a bloody cloud in the sky to offer a fleeting reprieve from the murderous sun. Sweat rolled down Ricker’s back, itching and stinging his wounds. He remained still, ignoring the urge to swipe at the rivulets’ tortuous pathways. He studied the crew as they milled about, meticulous in their duties. As he watched attentively, so did Sam watch him. The colossus had taken to sharpening his gulley on a whetstone. Even as he rubbed the blade with oil, Sam’s vigilant gaze remained on Ricker.

  Rissa lads stared at him as if he had two heads. They whispered, but Ricker could hear their comments just the same.

  “Who’s the cove?”

  “What would the Capt’n want with ’im?”