Raised By Wolves 3 - Treasure (77 page)

My heart ached to rival my shoulder. “I am very proud.”

“I need you,” he whispered. “But not to carry me, now. You make me stronger than that.”

I caressed his cheek with my knuckles, and ran my thumb across his lips, and he lowered his head to claim my mouth.

I was proud of him. And I felt loved beyond all measure. But… some little thought clawed about in my belly.

Thankfully, Gaston became distracted by dosing me with a little laudanum, tending to my wound, and locating a pineapple for us to eat.

As I mouthed the succulent fruit, and the drug began to tug at my thoughts, pulling them deeper, or perhaps farther from the cave, I envisioned my Horse. It stood trembling beside the road. I did not attempt to soothe it, nor did I grip the reins, though I had the peculiar feeling the animal might bolt at any moment. Instead, I held still and listened and looked about. At last I spied the cause of its consternation: Gaston’s Horse pulling the cart down the road without me.

Gaston was lying beside me again, eyeing me with concern.

“I am afraid you will leave me now that you do not need me as you did before,” I said softly. “It is not a rational thing. It is my Horse.”

He had been prepared to protest, but at my last words he nodded solemnly. “What might I do to reassure it?”

“Do not leave,” I said with mild amusement.

“How frightened...” he began to ask, and then he looked away and took a quick breath as if realizing where we were. He moved closer, partially covering my left side, so that our noses touched. “We are not well,” he breathed, as if it were a thing the world could not be allowed to hear. “We must not forget that.”

I envisioned his Horse standing nose to nose with mine, beside the road: the level road of the sea, where we need not fear the cart rolling away or anyone strewing gravel beneath us. I wished to frolic in the field for a time, but we could not. He was chained to the road, and not to me: he was the ship’s surgeon. That annoyed my Horse more than frightened it.

“You have chained yourself to something other than me and our cart,” I said thoughtfully as I rolled this new concept about in my head, examining the rough edges and not seeing how it could fit anywhere I might wish to place it. I wanted to throw it away.

“Will…” he began to protest.

I shook my head and awarded him a reassuring smile. “Non, it is as it should be. It is your profession… And your father. And your future.

And as we have discussed, there are things in our lives you should put before me now. It is good: very good. I am merely… It is new.” I remembered not to shrug.

His brow furrowed, and he lowered his head until our foreheads touched. In the gentle swells of the laudanum, I imagined he was attempting to find another way to share my thoughts. I chuckled. He pulled back and frowned at me.

“I wish you could see into my mind,” I said.

The frown fled as he regarded our position, and he smirked. “I wish I could shove my head inside of yours and live there: all of me.”

I shook my head. “I do not think you should.”

“Why?” he asked seriously.

“I do not feel it is a fine place, or that any other should be forced to dwell here.”

“It is better than my mind,” he said. “And there would not be this wall between us.” He thumped his chest lightly.

I caressed his arm, feeling the hair upon his skin and the muscle beneath it. “I like these walls. Not that they keep us apart, but that they give us something to climb.” I envisioned climbing atop him; and as my cock stirred despite the laudanum, I chuckled at my wounded body rather than curse it.

He was shaking his head at me, but a smile played about his lips.

“You are drugged.”

“I am happy and loved,” I sighed.

He became quite somber again. “You are more important than…”

I put a finger to his lips. “I know.”

And I did. Yet, even though I no longer felt the tingling of fear as I had before, I knew the drug was hiding it, just as it was masking the pain of my still-aching shoulder. I needed to heal, and learn to accept this new arrangement of our lives. I was sure Cow Island would give us time to do both, as long as we stayed aboard the ship.

And so I slept a great deal, and dreamed of frolicking centaurs, whilst we beat our way east up the ever-westward rushing winds of the Northern Sea. Gaston spent most of my forays into consciousness at my side; and we spoke of things that held little import in the world of men, and much interest for playful mythical beings: such as, upon watching Pete sleep for hours, we questioned why cats are indolent creatures – to which we eventually bowed to Pete’s perception of the matter: that cats lie about all day in order to conserve their strength, so that they might perform heroic deeds.

At that, Gaston called me his lap cat and asked what feats I planned to perform, and rubbed my belly and massaged me quite deliciously. At some point in the happy fog I drifted in, the clouds parted enough for me to see that my matelot wished to be stroked; and so, when next we were alone save for snoring men, I rolled onto my good shoulder and presented him my backside – with a helpful wiggle of it, in case he might mistake my intention.

He did not move for a time, exhibiting his usual stillness before a protest; and then he was upon me, pushing my breeches down and caressing my buttocks such that I squirmed and sighed. He produced the pot of his favorite salve, and the air became redolent with almonds and musk. My manhood stirred and rose slowly: apparently weighing whether the promised acute, yet ephemeral, pleasure of coupling outweighed the subdued, but constant, bliss of the laudanum. In the end, it made no distinct choice, and merely ached happily for a time as my man filled me and rocked us with the waves until he washed ashore at the Gates of Heaven, while I watched him from a distance and smiled lovingly.

Though my matelot was concerned that I did not join him in the culmination of the activity, he was greatly relieved that I wished to receive him; and coupling became part of our daily regimen – or rather my part in it, as I was, of course, not joining Gaston is his morning calisthenics.

And so our voyage to Cow Island passed, until at last the Bard slipped us behind the reef of the western bay, in the last week of the year. We anchored with the other vessels of Morgan’s fleet, including the Oxford. I was feeling well enough to venture onto deck; and, as I had not seen her before, I was quite surprised to see the warship towering over the Brethren’s brigs and sloops. With her thirty-four guns on two decks, she was the largest craft I had seen in the West Indies save the galleons.

I could well see why she emboldened Morgan so.

There was another ship I did not recognize next to her: a frigate, and French by her colors, the Cour Volant. Cudro and Gaston did not recognize her, either. Thus when Bradley rowed over to greet us, Striker’s first questions were of this new vessel.

“You’ll like it none,” Bradley sighed and pushed his hat aside to scratch his head before casting an annoyed glance toward Gaston and me. “Then you best tell me of it before my men scatter,” Striker said.

This elicited a deep frown from the older captain, but then Bradley shrugged and spoke as if he were angry at the events in question and not Striker. “She’s French and from Tortuga. Her captain’s called La Vivon. Any here know him?” He glanced about, and Cudro frowned in thought and Gaston shrugged.

“I’ve heard of him; don’t know him, though,” our Dutchman said.

“Well,” Bradley sighed, “They took an English merchant ship… for victuals.” Bradley cursed with another shrug. “Nothing else, and they left a note payable on account in Cayonne or Port Royal. But Captain Collier.” He gestured with his hat at the Oxford. “Saw it as piracy and he captured the Cour Volant for preying on an English vessel.”

Striker spat, “God-damned navy bastards! I knew they would be nothing but trouble. What is Morgan doing?”

Bradley took a deep breath and let it out slowly while meeting Striker’s gaze. “He wants the ship.”

“Will they join us?” Striker asked.

Bradley sighed again. “He doesn’t care.”

Striker swore profusely, and there was much muttering among the men who had heard.

Bradley stepped close to Striker and spoke so that only those nearest heard. “Think, man, if you do not sail with us now, do not think you will be welcome next season. Come and speak with Morgan, but do it with a civil tongue.”

Striker stepped back from him and looked about.

When his troubled gaze met mine, I gave him a helpless gesture with my good hand in lieu of shrugging. “You might as well hear him out.”

“Ya Best Na’ Take Me Then,” Pete told his matelot with a glare at Bradley. “Take Cudro.”

The Dutchman sighed. “If I must.”

“AndA Dozen More,” Pete hissed. “Men We Trust. GastonAn’I’ll Fetch Ya Back If TheBastard Does A Stupid Thing. It’llCost ’Im Dear.”

Bradley kept his voice as low as Pete’s. “That isn’t necessary.”

Striker shook his head; his dark eyes were cold. He did not keep his voice pitched for the closest ears alone. “I don’t know who to trust these days. You can’t trust a man just because he says he’s a member of the Brethren. And Collier isn’t one of us. Maybe he’s heard some tale of me.

Maybe Morgan wants my ship.”

Bradley swore quietly. “Lord, man, if we’ve sunk that low…”

“Then what?” Striker snapped. “You have a wife and plantation.”

“So do you,” Bradley said.

“Aye, aye,” Striker said. “Mine married me because she respects me.”

“Aye,” Pete grumbled. “SheDon’t Fuck Dogs.”

Bradley gave a hissing inhalation; and all was quiet and still for a moment in its wake. Striker awarded his matelot a look that said that perhaps those were unwise words. Pete shrugged.

Cudro exchanged a look with Striker and began calling upon men to lower our longboat and row Striker to the Oxford. As I eyed the half-dozen men he chose, I rued our not having Liam, Julio, and Davey with us; but I knew well they were best where they were.

“I would have you go,” Striker told me.

Bradley paused in going over the gunwale and gave Striker a warning look.

I shook my head with a sad smile and told Striker. “I do not feel I would aid in the endeavor, even if not in my present state.”

Bradley snorted and continued down the netting to his boat.

“I know,” Striker sighed, and then whispered as he passed me to board our longboat. “But I’ll never worry about you shooting someone who needs to be shot.”

I chuckled and grabbed him to pull his ear to my lips. “I would dearly love to put a ball in Morgan’s eye.”

Striker grinned and sighed. “And that’s why you shouldn’t go.”

“How long?” Gaston asked as Cudro and Striker began to climb over the side.

“Dusk,” Striker said.

Cudro nodded. “I’ll send Ash back if all is well and we need stay longer. I send anybody else…”

Pete, Gaston, and the Bard nodded solemnly.

As they rowed away behind Bradley’s boat, I forced myself to concentrate on gauging the crew’s reaction. There was much consternation among their ranks. Once again, I wished for Liam’s presence: to talk to them in his way and learn their thoughts. I did not feel I was up to the task; and not only because of my wound. I was not one of them in that way. Sadly, I realized I had somehow become a wolf here. I supposed I should not expect them to view me as aught else when I was still a Lord in their eyes, and an owner of the ship, and I was ever in the cabin with my matelot. For all my talk of being a member of the Brethren, was I truly? Was any of us? As Gaston had once asked, how many of the men around us had ever been on the Coast we were purportedly the Brethren of?

It made me sad and weary; and I pushed away from the rail and Gaston, and retreated to the cabin. He followed me as far as the door, but seemed reluctant to retreat with me.

“I should rest,” I said. “In case there is…”

He snorted. “There best not be need. What is wrong?”

I pulled him close and whispered my thoughts. His eyes were sad when he pulled away far enough to meet my gaze.

“I have never truly been one with them,” he said distantly. “We are Arthur’s knights, championing an ideal.”

I sighed, feeling how very correct he was, and how very wrong that should be. “Sometimes ideals need more championing than people.”

He grinned. “You are my Will.” He kissed my nose. “I should…” He looked back over his shoulder and returned to gaze at me with a grimace.

“As I am surgeon this voyage, and I have made a commitment to…”

“Oui, you should be present among them. You need not explain. I commend you heartily. I will rest.”

He kissed my lips lightly and left me. I closed the cabin door. As I turned to my bed, I was dismayed to see I was not alone. Alonso lay sprawled in Cudro’s hammock, his eyes curious and intent upon me.

He had been in the cabin several times as we sailed here, but I had not been alone with him since before I was shot. I made no effort to hide my sigh as I sank to my mattress.

Alonso snorted and rolled his eyes expressively.

“I am pleased to see you, too,” he said sarcastically in Castilian.

“I came here to rest, not spar,” I said with a sincere smile.

He shook his head sadly. “I do not mean to trouble you, Will.” This time there was no hesitation before my name.

“Perhaps not,” I said. “And I… You should not. I wish I could trust that you will not.”

“Who do you wish you could trust?” he asked, and sat enthusiastically. “Do you fear that I will trouble you with my actions?”

he teased. “Or do you wish that my presence would not trouble you?”

I was amused at his conviction in this truly annoying path he chose to follow. “You trouble me, you bastard; but it is not from fear I will find you enticing.”

He sighed and shrugged expressively. “A man must dream.”

I did not wish to address that further, and he did not seem inclined to leave; nor did I feel inclined to lie down and turn my back on him.

“How do you find sailing with so many who hate the Spanish?”

He frowned at this new topic, and reclined again on the hammock, positioning himself so that he could face me.