Hook & Jill (The Hook & Jill Saga) (18 page)

“No, please. All I want is a knife.”

“No. And don’t ask me for a tiger-tail belt to tuck it in, either.”

“All right. I won’t ask. I’ll get it myself!”

So much to do. She backed away and reached over the bed to gather up the lion skin. She wrapped herself in it and, this night, moved away from the bed, settling instead at the far side of the fire. The hide would keep her strong and warm during the darkness, help her to formulate her plans. And she didn’t want to be alone.

Peter knelt down beside her. “Wendy, come back to the bed.”

“No.”

His myrtle scent encircled her. “I won’t let Hook take you from me.”

“I intend to have a say in the matter, too.” A curious blend of dread and anticipation surged through her heart as she thought of the future. She was old enough now to realize that anything could happen, and without warning. Only one thing was certain. “Neither of us was prepared for today. For the boys’ safety, we’ll have to be ready for Hook’s next move.”

“I’ve always been ready to fight him. You held me back.”

“And now I know how right I was!”

“And now I know Hook wants to steal you from me. But I chose you to be our mother, to tell us stories. The pirates can’t have you.”

The events of this day weighed heavily on Wendy, and it was only getting longer. “I believe I’ll always tell stories. It’s just that the ending of this one isn’t as clear to me as it once was.”

“I don’t want it to end at all.”

“But the boys—”

Peter tossed his head. “There will always be boys. I mean you.” His voice resonated, unashamed. “I don’t want you to go away again.”

“Go to sleep, Peter.”

“I felt so strange while you were gone. I’ve never felt that way before.”

“I felt new things, too.” But the fading fire revealed his features in a new light. Wendy had never seen Peter look so troubled.

“I don’t like feeling that way.”

“How did you feel, Peter?”

“I felt… alone.”

Chapter 17

The Revel Master

The fairy ran her hands through the velvet and relished the luxury of it. Reclining on her cushion, she worshipped at the altar of her new god, celebrating his mysteries. She was a true believer.

Hook looked down at the living jewel on his lap, sensing tremors in the wings beneath his fingertips. This indulgence was so little to give the creature, for so much return. And a delight to give.

The black velvet was set aside now. He was stripped to an open shirt and breeches, his sword and boots waiting by his camp bed, his feet digging into the pile of the carpet. The silken tent was lit by a lantern sitting on the table next his chair, casting its light on a tomahawk. The wedge of rock on its shaft crouched grim and rugged under its feathering. Rude, by Hook’s standards. But effective.

The captain had given the word. The sound of his men carousing echoed off the harbor waters and rang in the woods behind, accompanied by a fiddle and a reedy concertina. The bonfire on the beach had been torched. As it feasted on its fuel, the glare of it threw color sprawling on the tent floor. Outside it reflected in the sailors’ eyes, flickering out only as their mouths tilted up to admit the contents of flashing bottles. The revels had begun.

Hook took a drink from a bottle of his own. He would join his men momentarily, after business. “So we advance to the next level.” When he spoke to the fairy, she caught the sweet, potent scent, and sat up to hold her thimble for another draught.

“Yes, my dear, all you want tonight.” He tipped her a drop. “Our success!” They drank. When she had drained her cup, she looked up to him, quizzical.

“You wonder why the Wendy wasn’t taken today. You must trust me, Jewel. The berry ripens on the vine.”

Reverting to habit, she chimed the least bit rudely, whereupon his eyes narrowed and his voice smoothed. “You want to watch yourself.” Tink subsided; Jewel returned. “Better.” He relaxed. “Your beloved Pan is spared for the greater effect. I nudged him just sharply enough to move the game along.”

The fairy flipped her hair out of her eyes. Hook raised the cushion and set it down on the table, bending closer. “He deserved at least that much, even you must admit.” His frown exuded solicitude. “How ungallantly he handled my Jewel!” Vividly, his words resurrected the memory for Jewel. Still a martyr to the boy’s blow, she rubbed her hand on her maltreated cheek, sighing.

“Pan can never give her what she wants now. She will learn.” His half-smile stole to his face. “I have found her to be a quick study. Rest now, Jewel. I will send you home before the sun rises. But remember… he is also as yet unfit to deliver your own heart’s desire. Sleep tonight, and believe in Time.”

Jewel reached her arms toward him. Her high priest bestowed his little finger, and she squeezed it. Hook shook his head. Such simple faith.

Drawing the netting aside, he set her pillow on his cot, then closed it to shield her from view. “Smee.” The tent flap rustled and the boatswain stooped under its opening, in his hand his own measure of the strong, sweet rum he was reputed to resemble.

“Cap’n?”

His captain’s lip curled. “Put down the firewater Smee, and bring me the boy.”

“Aye, Sir, begging your pardon.” Moments later, the flap opened again to admit the native boy, steered by Smee’s hand on one naked shoulder. Rowan stood erect, eyes fixed in front of him, hands bound at his groin by rope.

Hook faced him, equally uncompromising, but for his loose waves of hair. In the warmth of the evening, his voice struck chill. “In spite of Mr. Yulunga’s eagerness to dispatch you, my hook in his flesh ordained otherwise. As you might guess from the ease with which he captured you, Yulunga is one of my best men. Yet for your sake, he now bears the mark of my mercy. You live, and my man is disfigured. Still…” His eyes probed Rowan’s one last time. “It would be bad manners on my part not to thank you for your usefulness. You will not journey to your ‘Dark Hunting’ ground tonight.” Hook lifted the tomahawk and swung it casually, experimentally. The boy watched, his slate-colored eyes impassive.

“According to your own custom, you are in my debt. I have no such honorable entanglements, so I will keep this. No doubt we’ll meet again; I’ll not say goodbye.” He turned to Smee. “Take him to the forest and watch him go. Bring Yulunga with you. Leave the boy bound.”

“Aye, Captain.” As Smee prodded the young man from the tent, Hook tucked the tomahawk into his own belt. It suited him tonight. He aimed a last look at the cot, then he caught up his bottle and stepped into the night. Into the revelry.

The sea breeze was bracing. Torches blazed along the beach, the bonfire burned hot and high. Hook strode toward it, his men falling away to cut a path before his hook could do it for him. The pirates’ eyes glinted in the firelight, appreciating the rare sight of their captain at their celebrations. Tonight he was among them, and he brought his own heat to the fire. Bare feet sank in cool sand, drinks rose in hands. The captain’s claw called for attention. It pointed to the fire.

Silence stumbled among the crew, releasing the soggy slap of breakers on the sand. The dry wood sparked, sending fire moths to the moon. “Here’s a beacon to fetch us our Beauty. She sails toward us now. It’s back to work for us soon, on the high seas! To the
Jolly Roger!”
He drank deeply. The water bounced the pirates’ shouts back to them, doubling the cheer and setting off the drumming.

The hook directed the raising of a driftwood target, and guns added their barking to the merriment, blazing into the night. The captain flung a bottle high and laughed as it burst into ringing stars. In habit born of experience, Hook cast his glance around the periphery of the festivities, on guard for peril. Two or three native women in fringe and beads loitered at the edge of the wood. Hook signaled to Mason, the forest-side sentry, to let them come. None of his company should be alone tonight. He circled the fire, master of the revels, leading not a pack of dogs this night, but men. Yet as they clapped their hands to one another’s, all avoided their captain’s. His hand was a legend, with a sharp reminder.

The women knew it, too. As they stole to the beach, they slipped amid the crewmen, where they were welcomed with warmer hands. They smiled and returned the petting, enjoying the attention, but their dark eyes followed the captain as they moved among his men. Dancing and sipping, they flirted with danger as the night wore on, drawn curiously closer to the man of the claw, of whom they had heard in many tales. Subtly, Hook returned their smiles, biding his time.

Smee and Yulunga drifted back to the beach, and their captain watched as Smee selected his woman, wrapping his arms around her to snatch her off the sand. Smee beamed on her. “Lily! You’ve accepted our invitation, then! You’re here.”

She was pretty, with her dark hair in a braid, her figure pleasingly full. Her arms encircled Smee’s neck and she laughed and looked up into his eyes, smiling. “Where else would I be?” Smee carried her from the crowd, away to the shadows at the edge of the sand. Gentleman Starkey’s features went dark as the two passed between him and the fire, then his scar-marked face lit up again before he turned to lay a kiss on a second lady, the perfection of her cheek contrasting with his own. They hastened toward the trees, his arms surrounding her.

Hook made his move. He strode toward Cecco. With earrings swinging and bracelets jingling, the Italian sailor pulled the third woman in a dance around the blaze and headed for the wood. Hook snared him by the fine-embroidered collar. At the tug of the claw, Cecco halted. The others caught the motion in the corners of their eyes. Their song trailed away as they stared. In slow, guarded movements, Cecco looked around. “Captain? You wish?”

“I wish. But I’ll return her, Mr. Cecco. Intact.” A murmur rippled through the gathering as he unhooked his claw from Cecco’s collar. Cecco threw his hands up and inclined his head to the lady. Moving off, he kept his dusky eyes on the captain, shoving away the elbows of his jovial comrades.

Hook guided the lady away from the fire and directed the company over his shoulder, “Broach a new cask, and give us another of your songs.” Excepting Cecco, the men scattered. The fiddle struck up a rollicking tune. The concertina caught it up to wheeze along. Where the sand became moist under their feet, Hook turned to her wide black eyes. He waved his claw in a congenial flourish, and smiled half-way. “Don’t look so frightened. It hasn’t had to tear a woman yet. I see no reason to begin tonight.”

Releasing her breath, she smiled. Dimples played around her mouth. Her eyes darted as she wondered where to place her hands. He helped her, hiding his hook behind her waist and pulling her arm toward his belt. He pressed his hips against hers and began to sway to the rhythm of the drums. She followed, becoming more at ease in this familiar coupling. Feeling the tomahawk rub against her waist, she rested her hand on it. “This is a kind of weapon I have seen many times, but never before in a pirate’s belt.”

“It pleases me tonight. The outward indication of my mood.”

“You are a warrior tonight? Not a lover?” Her dimples deepened.

“I will give you anything but my secrets.”

“Maybe you are both! But you command many sailors.” Her hand slipped from the tomahawk to his leg, stroking it. “You know. It is unimportant, what lies on the outside of a man.” Her touch slid to the inside of his thigh. “It is what is hidden within that matters.”

“This man has something hidden. For you.” He stopped moving and appreciated the animal warmth of her palm on his thigh. “Within my pocket, that is. You may retrieve it if you so desire.”

Her gaze lingered on his eyes; her hand felt for the pocket. Hook smiled while she searched for it, coy, and taking her time. Her fingers bestowed a delightful pressure as they readily surveyed. The lady’s complexion took on a becoming flush that Hook found altogether agreeable, and he pressed closer, the better to admire it. The dimples lent her lips a kissable charm, and that charm increased with the attention she devoted to every nuance of his inclination. Standing near the water, neither he nor the lady took notice when the logs of the fire crashed, eaten away by flame, resettling their bones in the shooting blaze. The hidden prize awaited.

Her eyelashes fluttered; the pocket was found, and it was empty. Hook’s lip twitched. “The other one. No hurry.” She took him at his word, her own face sharing the look of pleasure on his as she fondled him, warming to the task once again, and tarrying over it. In time, the lady found something significant in a region no pocket could logically inhabit. Their two bodies as they touched thrummed with the drumming. She did not forget her quest, though in the course of it no avenue of opportunity went untried, no possible path neglected. The elusive prize seemed lost to limbo, but neither party repented. And when her fingers finally slipped into the pocket, his hand pressed upon them and trapped them there.

“Understand. I have no wish to offend you. It is meant as a gift, for you and your companions.”

Released from his grip but reluctant to end the game, her fingers slowly sought the gift, found it, and drew it out. She looked down. It was sharply pointed, glowing a lustrous white in the torchlight. The woman gasped with delight. “Where did you find this? It is the rarest of offerings!” She ran its smoothness through her hair, mussed by the men, and felt its luxuriance. A solid pearl comb.

“It is from the Mermaids’ Lagoon. I am gratified by your pleasure. Merely a token.”

She tucked it into the pouch slung at her waist, and clung to him. Her countenance shone. “It is much more than that, to me.” Twining her lively, lissome fingers in his, she invited him with her eyes. “Will you walk with me? Please. I would like to give you a gift, also.”

“I will walk with you back to Mr. Cecco. I perceive that he is most anxious for your gifts.” He circled his arm around her tempting dimensions and started to turn, but stopped at her tug. Bracing her hand on his arm, she stood on tiptoe to brush feather-light kisses against his throat. When he didn’t push her away, she slid her hands up his chest. He looked down at her, his lips set in a wry smile, waiting.