Raised By Wolves 3 - Treasure (80 page)

I embraced him with my good arm and chuckled against his neck.

“You are doing an admirable job of it already, my love.”

He snorted, but his arms were around me and his lips upon my cheek. “Will you forgive me if I cease to do so?”

“Oui,” I said without reservation.

There was a snort nearby, and we looked around to find Pete gazing upon us with a mixture of amusement and disdain.

“Aye, we are at it again,” I said with a smile.

Pete sighed and joined us, choosing to sit and dangle his legs through the railing. We glanced at one another and dropped to sit next to him.

“What is wrong?” Gaston asked.

Tension left the Golden One’s shoulders, and he glanced at Gaston before returning his gaze to the dark beyond the rail.

“I Been Thinkin’TooMuch,” he sighed.

“It serves purpose,” Gaston admonished kindly.

“Aye,” Pete grumbled. “But I Keep Wonderin’ Iffn I Be Wrong About The Chess. Maybe We Should Just Run. But…” He sighed as if the weight of the world drove the air from his lungs. “I Be Wonderin’Iffn It Be Better Ta BeHappy… Fer’Im Ta BeHappy, ThanFer’Im Ta BeAlive. IWant Ta Live NoMatter The Cost. But’EDon’tSee It ThatWay ’EValues Somes ThingsMore ThanLivin’. AndI Do Too… But…

“I Been Thinkin’ Like I Did Afore Sarah. ’Bout The Whole Chess Thing.

I Been Thinkin’ ’E Would Do What It Is We Need Ta Do Ta Live. But I Should A Learned With Sarah, That I Can’t Be Thinkin’ Fer ’Im. ’E Be ’Is Own Man.

An’ I Love’ Im. An’ I Won’t Leave ’Im. An’ I Know ’E Won’t Leave Me. But I Know ’E Won’t Let Go A’ Things ’EWants More Than Gold Or Life. I Be One O’ ’Em .

Sarah Be One ’O ’Em. But Bein’ A Captain Be One O’ ’Em Too.”

I thought of Striker’s words to me. “He is hoping something will happen that will allow him to keep everything: some miracle such as your loving him enough to take him back after Sarah.”

Pete sighed with frustration. “Aye. But I Can’t…

It Na’ Be Up Ta Me This Time. An’ I Would Iffn I Could. ’E Always Be The One Thinkin’ Fer Us. Thinkin’ O’ Money, An’ Who We Should Sail With, An Waitin’

’Til It Was Good Ta ’Ave ’Is Own Ship.”

He turned his great blue eyes upon us. “But That Be The Problem.

’E Were Always Waitin’ FerSomethin’. Me – I Were Happy Just Livin’– With’Im.

An’Now, I Be Doin’ The Thinkin’ An’ ’E Still Be Waitin’. An’ It Be Like It Was With Sarah. I Na’ Be Enuff. Sarah An’The Babe Na’ Be Enuff.” He gave a bitter shake of his head and looked away again.

His words made my heart ache, as I heard strange, twisted echoes of my thoughts in them.

“Is love enough?” I asked, and heard Gaston’s breath catch. “I would have… I have gambled all that I am upon it… Because I have spent my entire life waiting for it. I have harbored no other goal or dream. But truly, can we define ourselves by love alone? Gaston is a physician by calling, and I cannot deny him that. And I know you do not seek to deny Striker, and…”

Pete was staring at me, and I thought I had likely angered him, but I did not see rage in his eyes, but curiosity.

“Ya Put Yur Matelot Above All Else?” he challenged.

“Have I not proven it?” I asked.

“Ya Did Na’ Want Yur Title.”

He was, of course, correct. I soothed my ire at his challenge, and seriously considered his question and found at every turn that I discovered nothing my heart had not initially said.

I sighed. “I occasionally feel driven to philanthropy, and I am ever called to… minister to those in need of counsel, for good or ill, but I have often walked away from those pursuits these last years – for him. I do not even put my life above his. And yet, I know that is perhaps not as it should be. I feel at times that my devotion is madness, a benign one to be sure, but still, not as maybe the Gods intended.”

I looked to Gaston, and found him smiling indulgently.

“I love you,” he breathed in French. “And you are mad.” This last seemed to pain him, and he looked away, startled.

I wished to speak to him of it, and felt annoyance at Pete’s continued presence, and I grinned.

“At every turn,” I said to Pete as I returned my gaze to him. “I am not as other men in that regard. Do you place Striker above all else?”

Pete smiled and scratched his blond stubble as he returned his gaze to the stars. “Nay.”

“So what would you not do for him?” I asked with curiosity. Pete had already given up much of what I felt he might have valued – namely buccaneer tradition and roving like wild men as they had for ten years– in order to stay with his man. I could not see him leaving Striker, even if his matelot were to become an honest merchant and sit about Port Royal for years at a time. “My nephew? Sarah?”

He winced. “Naw, Na’ Thinkin’ O’ Them. Should.”

“I do not place little Jamaica above Gaston, either,” I said.

“They Na’ Be Ours,” Pete sighed. Then the golden shoulders shrugged.

“Striker Be Mine. ’E Be All I Ever Lay Claim To. So. Won’t Stay With ’Im Iffn I Can’t Fuck ’Im, Or Iffn’ I Must Be Lyin’ ’Bout It. Or Iffn’ ’E Na’ Hold Ta Me Bein’

’Is Matelot In Other Ways. I Na’ Be ’Is Friend. I Will Na’ ’Ave Any Damn Bastard Thinkin’I Be Another Man’s Slave Or Servant, Na’ Even ’Is, ’Specially Na’ ’Is.”

He sighed and the shoulders slumped. “There Were OtherThings.

Last Year. Afore Sarah. Things I Thought More Important Than Livin’.

Prideful Things. But I Loved ’Im More Than Them.”

I heard his sad words, but my mind had become caught upon his current line of last defense.

“I have ever measured love by a man’s ability to overcome the purported wrongness of fucking me. I do not view it in quite the same manner, now; but I feel that is a very good distinction to be made. If we are not loved enough to held to in all ways, then it is not truly love: if they are not proud of us, it is not love.”

Pete nodded and continued watching the dark water.

Gaston was quiet with his head pressed to the railing. I squeezed his fingers and he returned the gesture and added a small sad smile.

“If ever I am not proud of you, shoot me,” he whispered in French.

I nodded solemnly.

“What’d ’E Say?” Pete asked.

I turned to him and found him frowning. I repeated Gaston’s words.

Pete nodded and looked away with a sheepish grimace. “Shoulda’

Guessed.” Then he turned back to fix Gaston with a challenging stare.

“What Do Ya’ Place Above ’Im?”

My matelot flinched, but he met Pete’s gaze steadily, even as his fingers nearly ground my bones to dust. “You are correct: I am more like Striker than either of you. I want things… now… that I never dreamed of before I had Will. He has made it all possible, and I feel ashamed that I should want anything other than him.”

“Do not, my love,” I said in English. “I feel it makes you a far saner man than I.”

“That hardly seems possible,” Gaston said with a wry smile, and let up on my fingers.

“SoYa’ Sayin’I Be Mad?” Pete asked with a trace of amusement.

“Perhaps,” I said with a grin. “Or I am saying we have very small lives. Perhaps we should develop other goals.”

Pete was no longer amused, and he shook his head with consternation. “Iffn’ Two Men Both ’Ave Goals, They Na’ Stay Together.”

I nodded. “Perhaps that is the madness of love ever bemoaned by poets and playwrights.”

The Golden One sighed. “’E Can Keep’Is Damn Goals. Still Don’ Know ’Ow’ E’ll Reach ’Em Though.”

“Let us see what the morrow brings,” I said tiredly, and then realized I was wrong. “Nay, let us make goals, and then see how the morrow shapes what course we must take to achieve them.”

Pete smirked. “I’ll Likely Be Shootin’ ’Im Ta Keep ’Im Alive. Even If It Makes ’Im Miserable.” He snorted. “Be Best Fur Sarah An’ The Babe.” He stood, and leaned down to brush a kiss on my forehead and then another upon Gaston’s. I was minded of Agnes, and wondered why they felt compelled to ever do that. Then he left us, and we heard the cabin door open and close a moment later.

“I see why your Horse is distraught now, about losing me,” Gaston whispered in French.

“I do not,” I said with a smile. “I see why it is a foolish animal.”

His green eyes were in shadow, and nearly as dark as the ocean beneath us. “I am ashamed,” he breathed, “that I am relieved that I am all you value.”

I considered that, and at last smiled. “I am relieved that you are ashamed.”

He frowned briefly, and smiled.

“Let us not question our love,” I said softly. “As we already know it to be mad, and a thing of our Horses, and thus of a truth we cannot question even at their wildest.”

He kissed me with great truth, and I snuggled into his arms and wondered how this new year we teetered on the eve of would unfold.

There were surely choices to made; but I felt they were all to be made by others, as I had already made mine.

The remainder of the night passed without incident; and we slept through much of the day, thus apparently sparing ourselves from the tension growing upon the Queen. When at last we emerged onto the deck in the late afternoon, we found our companions fretful: the deck was awash with grumbles, and very few were speaking to one another upon the quarterdeck.

Cudro awarded us a shrug, and glanced at Striker as we joined our friends. “We were discussing what we wish of the meeting tonight.”

Striker’s back was to us, and his gaze was fixed upon the western horizon. Pete was glowering at him. The Bard was sullenly studying the other ships. Dickey was eyeing his matelot with concern. Ash was regarding his own man in the same manner: his hands fidgeting as he stood at Cudro’s side. I wondered how we had not been woken by whatever argument must have occurred. It was no wonder the men were grumbling.

“What we wish for; or what we will ask for?” I asked cheerfully.

Striker turned from the rail and came to me to hiss bitterly, “We can’t ask for what we wish. All here want a different thing. What do you wish for?”

I met his dark eyes and felt I understood his anger. He was torn between his need to do well by his men and friends and his personal desires.

“I wish to live,” I said solemnly. “I wish for us to do whatever will best further our survival. We have agreed that roving is a good course in order to discover our enemies and keep them from our home; but I do not wish to sail against a target that will be the end of us. In order to do anything, though, we will need to provision; and if we do not get these men off this ship soon, they might well be at one another’s throats, or ours – with or without the enticement of a bounty.”

Striker released a prolonged sigh and looked away before giving a guilty nod. “Aye.”

I glanced about. Cudro was fighting a smile and studying the rigging. The Bard gave a sullen nod, and Dickey appeared relieved.

Pete met my gaze with a rueful smile. “YaBest Be Careful. Or Ya Be Evokin’’Ere. OrWhatever That WordBe.”

This earned him a frown from his matelot, and Gaston’s amusement.

Striker at last determined we would not explain; and I was relieved to see him shrug the matter away and don his usual mantle of nonchalant leadership.

“If nothing else, the matter of provisioning must be decided,” he said.

“Aye,” Cudro said. “I still think that, unless we sail for a target on the morrow, we should put our men ashore to hunt even if none of the others do.”

Striker nodded.

“Even if we don’t sail with the others,” the Bard added. “We will need to provision.”

Striker sighed and nodded. Pete appeared glum, though.

“I’m going to dress,” Striker said.

This prompted a groan from Pete, but he followed his matelot to the cabin.

As there was little else to be said in front of the men – who, I was sure, had heard far too much already – we stood about and waited. At last Cudro, Ash, Pete, and Striker – all wearing boots, hats, and shirts– were in the ship’s boat and rowing toward the Oxford in the golden light of the setting sun. The warship’s decks were full of men, and music floated to us on the breeze. Some of our men asked if they could join the party there, and the Bard said we should have our own and told the men to dip into the one barrel of rum we had. There were soon more smiles than frowns aboard the Queen, and our musicians were testing their instruments.

Then our boat returned: full of the same men who had set out on her.

A furious Striker met us on the quarterdeck, followed by a somewhat amused Pete and a resigned Cudro.

I asked the obvious. “What occurred?”

“The meeting in the main cabin is for captains only!” Striker spat.

“No quartermasters! No matelots! And it’s not because the damn room is too small!”

His words spread throughout our decks, and one of our men closest to us handed him a tankard of rum. Striker took a good swig.

I thought of the rum and wine being consumed aboard the Oxford.

“Is it a meeting, or a party?” I asked.

“Party, where Morgan gets to tell drunken men what he wishes,”

Cudro said.

“Aye!” Striker growled as he disappeared into our cabin.

I looked to Pete.

He smiled. “’EDid Na Go Without Me,” he whispered as he passed us to follow his matelot.

I smiled, and turned back to find Cudro and the Bard eyeing Gaston and me. “Well, gentlemen, now what shall we do?”

The Bard cursed quietly.

Cudro shrugged. “Put men ashore in the morning, and wait and see what the damn fools decided. Then we can argue as to whether we follow their course or not.”

His words had not been spoken for our ears alone, and they were picked up and carried throughout the ship. The men relaxed and soon our party was once again underway, with music, dancing, rum, and surprising good cheer.

After darkness descended upon the bay, the Oxford began to fire celebratory salvos from her cannon across the water. Some of our men considered doing the same, but the Bard and Cudro ordered no one to waste our powder. So we listened to the big guns roar on occasion without answering them.

Striker and Pete rejoined us sometime later. They were smiling and stripped down to their breeches, and there was fine teasing from all close to us as to their activity of the last hour. Much to the pleasure of the men, they took to the deck and danced a jig together, as they had the first night I spent upon the North Wind. When the applause subsided, they came to the quarterdeck, sweating and eyes shining.