Mutiny of the Heart Read online

  “Where’d you get the rum?” Quint studied every corner of the vicinity for signs of trouble.

  “Henri forgot a flask under the mattress in my cabin.” Ricker corked the bottle and set it in the basket, as well.

  He glanced back at Sam, expecting him to chide Ricker with a scowl for taking Henri’s rum. Instead, Sam stared at Celeste with great suspicion, as if he could see her soul. The hairs on Ricker’s neck stood on end.

  “’Tis been a long time, mon ami.”

  Shank shifted from the shadows. His dark cream-colored skin—the result of his French and African ancestry—long, black, ropelike hair and buccaneer clothing cloaked him in the umbrage.

  “That it has,” Ricker said.

  “Where’s that swivel-tongued capitaine of yours?”

  “Jackson was tortured and killed by corsairs, I’m afraid. But you knew this, eh?”

  Shank shrugged. “He insulted me. A fittin’ death to the bastard, I’d say.”

  “He found you odd.”

  An amused, if not a bit arrogant, wide, toothy grin split his mouth. “He thought I was wooden-headed enough to cheat me outta much coin.”

  “I’ll grant it,” Ricker agreed.

  “I’m glad you managed escape.”

  Ricker took Shank’s proffered arm and firmly shook. They’d been friends for many years. He was a forthright man with a knack for smelling a cheat. Anyone who met Shank knew where they stood with him. Ricker admired that about him.

  “Hold on,” Quint interrupted. “This man sent French pirates after you?”

  “Aye.”

  Quint widened her eyes, likely wondering if he’d lost his mind.

  “And you brought us here, to his house? If you will pardon my saying so,” she gestured with palms up to Shank, “he tried to kill you!” Exasperation and outrage tinged her cheeks.

  Ricker decided he rather enjoyed seeing her ready to burst into fits. “Not me. Jackson,” he corrected.

  “You said we could trust him.”

  Shank chuckled. “If I was not to be trusted, as you say, you’d already be dead, mademoiselle.” He stepped forward. “Forgive my rudeness in delayin’ introductions. My name is Timothee Richelieu, after my father, of course. Friend and foe alike know me as Shank, due to my height, you see.”

  He needn’t explain. Shank stood a good head above Ricker, and Ricker himself was considered tall.

  “Captain Joelle Quint.” In lieu of a curtsy, she nodded her chin.

  “Capitaine?”

  A sneer pinched her mouth at the disbelief in Shank’s heavily French accent. “Of the Rissa.”

  Quint was testing Shank. If he knew corsairs, he should know of Rissa. Smartly educating him that there would be no double-crossing her without serious repercussions.

  Shank’s brow twitched. Aye, he was familiar, at the very least, with the ship.

  “This here is Sam,” she added.

  Sam remained unmoving, both hands resting on the hilt of his sword slung from his hip. Though Sam did not stand as tall as Shank, he made up for it in his breadth, easily two Shanks wide.

  “Pleased I am to meet you both.” Though he bowed in dramatic French fashion, his tone lacked sincerity.

  “Forgive our intrusion, Shank.” Ricker got straight to the point. “We need your help, mate.”

  “Of course, of course!” Shank’s jubilant garishness returned. Ricker knew damn well it wasn’t because he wanted to help. ’twas merely his indulgence in fleecing a friend.

  Shank plucked up the cup of rum from Celeste’s skeletal fingers and toasted to his deceased beloved. “À ma bien-aimée.” He swallowed the liquor in one gulp, returned the empty cup, and scooped up the flask from the basket.

  “Come.”

  Stairs creaked and gave under foot as they one by one climbed the steps and followed Shank under the turtle skulls nailed to the threshold. Inside was a feast to the eyes. Fine furnishings from the world over scattered about in the cluttered room. A porcelain teapot, a jade chess board and ivory cherub candlesticks shared space with tools, wooden bowls, fishing hooks and bottles filled with unknown, odd-colored substances. An embroidered green and gold tapestry hung on the wall next to ropes of drying herbs. A fishing net lay atop a black veneer and gilded commode. ’twas as if the beau monde had exploded in the river shack.

  The man had never left the island of St. Lucia, yet he had the treasures of a world traveler. Every item in Shank’s home was a prized possession—a testament to his bartering skills.

  The simple truth, Shank was a broker. People, innocents, victims, corrupt, illicit, good or bad, should they need help of any sort, Shank was their man. He offered supplies, free-trading and his services as liaison to transgression, for a price. Always a steep price.

  Shank shooed away the mangy orange cat crouched on a rickety table licking empty oyster shells clean. He plopped down into a chair, put aside the rum, and began prying open an oyster with a whale bone knife. “What is it I can do for you?”

  “We need lumber to repair our ship.” Ricker cast a sideways glance to Quint. Oh, yes. She was burning a hole through him. Yet, she said nothing of his reference to whose ship.

  “You run aground?”

  “Nay.”

  “Ah. You run into trouble again, did you?”

  “Ya might say.” Ricker picked up a tortoiseshell backscratcher, inspecting the etched carving on the handle.

  “That’s a trip to Soufrière. Upstream, a longer route than by coast, if you want to go undetected.” Shank slurped out the slimy meat from a shell.

  Ricker stifled a chuckle as Quint curled her lips at the disgusting sound. He replaced the scratching tool on the table. “But that won’t be a problem for you.”

  Shank wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “’Twill bring unwelcome notice with that kind of load on my skiff.”

  “Captain Quint will pay you generously for your troubles, won’t you, Captain?”

  Quint tossed a handful of gold coins to the table. “More once we get the supplies.”

  “Coins?” Shank asked, unimpressed.

  “And these.” Quint produced a pair of sapphire earrings.

  Shank’s eyes grew to the size of the shellfish he’d been prying open. He composed himself quickly, but not quick enough. Ricker, Quint, Sam and the cat knew Shank wanted the gemstones. Surely he didn’t mean for Celeste to wear the earrings. But then, Shank was indeed odd.

  He slurped out more meat, wiped his stained sleeve again, and nodded. “I’ll need to leave straightaway to the advantage of night.”

  “You mean we’ll need to leave straightaway.”

  “Nay, mademoiselle. There is not enough room on my boat for us all and your supplies. You’ll have to stay.”

  “No, monsieur. One of us will go with you,” she insisted. “We wouldn’t want you to alert anyone of our presence.”

  He placed a hand to his chest, feigning insult. “You don’t trust Shank?”

  “Sam will go with you,” she maintained. She crossed her arms, a dare to argue otherwise.

  Shank frowned, obviously not happy to be paired with the beast. Christ, neither was Ricker. That meant...

  “Don’t fret,” Quint said. “Sam doesn’t talk much. You’ll never know he’s there. Mr. Ricker and I will wait here.”

  “I’m to trust you? In ma maison?”

  “We wouldn’t have come to you if we didn’t need your help, Shank,” Ricker said.

  “What good would come of plundering your goods if we can’t make an escape,” Quint added. “I’m sending one of my own and offering you my sapphires.” The blue stones glittered in her open palm.

  Shank wiped his mouth again, though he hadn’t eaten another oyster. “Très bien. We must leave now.”

  Quint handed Sam a pouch, presumably payment for the supplies. An unspoken understanding passed between them.

  “Should we not make it back by daybreak, assume somethin’ went wrong.” Shank tucked the whale bone knife into
his breeches. “Assume trouble is on the way and get out.” He donned a wide-brimmed, floppy hat and grabbed a musket propped against the wall.

  As if in an afterthought, Shank whisked a glass bottle from a shelf and set it on the table. “For you,” he said to Ricker. “’Tis very good. You’ll thank me later.”

  “Be careful, my friends,” Ricker said.

  Quint patted Sam’s arm and sent a farewell in a single nod.

  Then they were gone. Cavernous footfalls leaving the porch were replaced by an even louder sound of silence.

  Quint sank into a chair at the round table. “I hope I didn’t make a mistake trusting you, Ricker.”

  “It’s tough, is it not? Depending on another, forced to give over complete control?” He watched Shank and Sam climb into a boat and shove off the pier.

  “A captain must keep an eye on the distant prize whilst making pressing choices.”

  “Ah, choices.” Ricker turned away from the window and sat across from her, pouring them both a shot of the liquor Shank generously offered. “For some, a denied entitlement.”

  He sipped his cup, but the spicy ginger flavor coating his tongue wasn’t enough and he finished it off.

  Shank was not lying. ’twas good. Very good.

  Quint gave him the full effect of her blunt frankness. “We all have choices, Mr. Ricker.”

  “Sloan.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Call me Sloan.”

  A smile crept up the corners of her mouth. “All right. Sloan. You may continue to address me as Captain.” She crossed her arm on the table, all too relaxed with the line of conversation, and raised her cup for a refill. “As I was saying, ’tis what we do with each choice that influences our destiny.”

  “I see your point, Joelle. In my unfortunate plight, perhaps I should choose to leave this cabin here and now.”

  “Aye, you could. Thereby, I’d choose to turn loose the entire Caribbean brethren to hunt you down. And it’s Captain.”

  Undaunted and having a bit of fun, he continued the bandy. “I might choose to whip your boys into a mutiny.” ’twas an empty taunt. Long gone were the plots of an uprising. He never had a prayer pitting her crew against Joelle.

  “For such,” Quint replied, “I could decide to chain you up in my cabin.”

  Delicious thought. “Mutiny it is.”

  She leaned in. Scents of rain-drenched skin, salt and floral soap tempered the humid smells of the fishing shack. “You should know I have killed men by my own hand for planning a mutiny.”

  Though her expression was playful, Ricker had no doubt her statement was truth. He, too, leaned in closer, eye to emerald eye. “I quite like the idea of your hands on me, Joelle.”

  Her tongue rolled over her bottom lip, sucking it in and slowly scraping her teeth across it. Heaven almighty!

  “It’s Captain.” Her words ground out in a husky whisper.

  His head swam, intoxicated with her dazzling green eyes, her plump lips. Or perhaps ’twas the liquor. Damn all, it didn’t matter.

  “No.” He shook his head, smirking. “I don’t think so, Joelle.” He wanted her. All of her. He was so damn hard, he was fast becoming uncomfortable.

  Scupper this! Ricker snatched Joelle’s arm and pulled her into his lap. She took advantage of the momentum and landed a kiss onto his mouth. Fiery, urgent, needy—their tongues probed and danced. She tasted of honey and rum, so delicious. He couldn’t get enough, yet he could hardly breathe. Joelle groped his shoulders, his neck, digging into his flesh, sending him further into a frenzy.

  Ricker reluctantly broke free of her kiss, if only out of necessity, to feast upon her neck. With one hand holding her firmly in place, the other sought out the breasts that had been taunting him. One too many layers of clothing separated his touch from her, but her breast was ample and soft in his grasp.

  Her sigh, feminine and primal, urged him on, lapping along the column of her neck. She held him close. He wanted closer.

  Joelle’s weight in his lap crushing his pulsing cock was driving him mad. Mad! Thankfully, she must be a witch steadfast on pushing him over the edge, for she clawed at his shirt, bunching fistfuls of it up and over. In no time, he shed his tunic and her mouth was dining on his again and her skilled fingers were working at the laces of his trousers.

  “Your clothes,” he said into her lips.

  Quicker than he could say “All Hail the King,” Joelle was rid of her corset. Then, much to his chagrin, she stopped undressing. A diabolical simper stole up her lips, cresting her flushed cheeks. Moving slower, she pulled her tunic from her trousers, and inched the shirt up revealing the smooth taut flesh of her belly. Ricker bit down the urge to rip the bloody material from her. She lifted the tunic higher. Just over her navel. To hell with this! Before she could really begin, or finish, her seductive strip, Ricker hitched the shirt off.

  He swallowed hard. She had the most gorgeous pair of breasts he’d ever seen. Pink nipples puckered, inviting him for a taste. Dear Lord, he lost all discipline.

  Joelle lowered her arms and arched into him, bestowing Ricker with more skin to sample. From one to the other, he suckled and flicked his tongue over each nipple. Her hands kneading over his shoulder, his back, kept pace with the sweet music of her moans.

  Ricker ground his teeth. “I want you.”

  He eased her off his lap, setting her on her feet. She was already unlacing her trousers.

  How did he get so lucky? There she stood, a bronzed beauty with her plaited red hair fallen over her left shoulder, wearing nothing but her worn leather boots and the bandage on her arm. Devil’s own, at eye-level was her thatch of curly russet hair. His mouth watered. He would taste her. God help him, he would.

  Ricker grabbed her arse, pulling her close. In spite of him, she dropped to her knees to finish his laces. His cock leapt more than sprang out. A sinful smirk bloomed to her freckled cheeks.

  Joelle wrapped her hand around his shaft. Holy... He groaned, trying his damnedest not to explode with the stroke of her palm. His elbow shot back, knocking over the bottle of liquor they had nearly finished. The rum spilled from the bottle’s neck and dribbled onto Ricker’s lap.

  That’s when he saw the handwritten words on the bottle’s paper label. Oh, shit. This was going to be either a torturous, painful night or a night of indulgent paradise.

  “Shank, you bastard.”

  “What is it?” Her eyes darkened—with thoughts of treachery, if he had to guess.

  “Bois bande. Extracted from local tree bark and—”

  “Is it poison?”

  “Nay. A very strong aphrodisiac.”

  Was is possible? He’d yet to see the vixen smile so bright. She drew her tongue at the crease of his thigh where the rum had trickled and follow up to the crown of his cock. She was sin, pure and pure. Madness. This was blind madness.

  Ricker grabbed her by her braid and pulled her back. “No,” he rasped. “I’ll be done before we start. Get up.”

  She raised an eyebrow, obviously complying only because she wanted to.

  “Turn around.”

  Gut me. Joelle had the most gorgeous backside he had ever lain witness to, smooth, firm and topped with twin dimples. And he had seen many an arse.

  He cupped his hands on the curve of her waist, and without further instruction, she straddled him. Slow, agonizingly, she eased down upon him. Inch by inch, he filled her. Damn, she was tight.

  As she began her ascent, ’twas as if she peeled a layer of him away. It hurt so good. He dug his fingers into her fleshy curves, thrusting upward when she slid back down. Delirium clouded his senses. Up and down she rode him. Harder and harder he pumped. Louder her cries. Heavier his gasps. The pressure in his cock building, building, building.

  He roared, and clamping his jaw, rammed into her one last time. Black and white stars burst behind his closed eyes. For a moment, seized and helpless, he was suspended by an ecstasy unlike anything he had ever experienced.

&nb
sp; With a woman who would own him.

  A woman he was to hate.

  Ricker emerged from his trance with the brush of her fingertips. Still impaled upon him, she pleasured herself to her own release. Blazes, no words described the feel of her muscles contracting around his sensitive, recovering cock.

  She fell back into him. Rubbing his palms up her sides, he cupped her breasts, and relished the rise and fall of her heavy breathing. He nestled his nose into the crook of her neck, inhaling her dewy scent. “That was magnificent, Joelle.”

  “Captain,” she insisted on a contented sigh.

  He smiled against her skin and whispered in her ear, “Yes, ma’am.”

  * * *

  He defiantly toyed with her, and at that moment, Joelle did not care. She swooned in carnal bliss, unrestraint with his touch, cast adrift in a tempest of lusty desire and need. She was drowning in his kisses along her neck. She placed her hands over his on her breasts, spurring him on as he groped. Her mind raced in fits and starts.

  What was she thinking, riding St. George with Ricker? She was already in a precarious way with him. The man was volatile, ready to go off with one wayward spark. He was angry and resentful to be indentured to her, but she had no choice. He had to help her. She couldn’t afford to lose him and his skills. Skills she found went way beyond those of map reading. Skills she wanted to investigate further.

  Mildly surprised he was still iron-stiff inside her, she began to grind her hips against him. A low growl rumbled from his chest. The slipping and sliding between them scaled her quickly to a glorious height. His hands slid from hers and skated down her stomach and into the juncture of her spread thighs. That intense yearning pooled in her crotch as the rough pads of his fingers drew back up into her nether hairs.

  Ricker suddenly pulled her off and brought her to the floor on all fours, wood biting into her knees.

  “It will be me that makes you scream this time.”

  Ricker rammed into her wet folds from behind. She yelped from the swift onslaught. He lanced into her with purpose. Grabbing her braid, he yanked her head back, driving into her hard, bucking, slamming. Devil be good, he felt amazing.