Renegade (5 page)

And his tattoos! She wanted to lift his forearm, to touch them, to run her fingers over his skin and feel if they were as smooth as they looked. She wanted to trace them with her finger, to see if she could make out the design that just looked black in the twilight. She wanted to touch him.

Oh God, did she want to touch him. She remembered the feel of that forearm across her back when he pulled her close to him for that kiss. The kiss might have only been for Creel’s benefit—she wasn’t naïve enough to believe that she could inspire passion in a man she only just met—but he’d put some effort into it. It wasn’t technically her first kiss; she’d practiced with cousins and friends when she’d been a little girl, as all children do. But it was her first kiss as a woman. It was the first time a
man
had kissed her.

And Lord, what a kiss. What a man! She felt her heart beat faster at the memory, felt heat pool between her legs, and wondered about it. She knew what it meant, thanks to her mother’s open and frank discussions with Becks and her sister, and had even experienced it a few times. But never this strong, and never because of the memory of a man’s kiss.

With a groan, she flopped over on her side, cradling the pillow in her arms, wondering what it would feel like to be held by him again. What he would’ve done had they been alone under that tree. How far she would’ve let him go…

How it would have felt.

It was a long night.

Port of Nassau, The Bahamas

Late April, 1877

“You gunna finish that rum?” Robert stood over him with a new bottle, and when Mac looked up in surprise, his friend nodded at the glass on the table. “You’ve been staring at it for a while.”

Mac’s brows pulled down in concentration. When had Robert left to go up to the bar? He couldn’t recall. He couldn’t recall much from the last hour, which meant that he’d probably already finished enough glasses of rum. Frowning, he leaned back in his chair. “Nah. You want it?”

Robert shrugged, and pulled the glass towards him. The big black man had a seemingly iron stomach, and Mac had lost more than one drinking contest to him when they’d both been younger. Now they rarely drank to excess, and he knew enough about his limits to know when he was done.

Slowly, he pulled a bench closer and propped both booted feet up on it with a sigh. He slouched further, resting the back of his head against the rough wood of the tavern wall. There were two whores across the room, pretty enough in a coarse way, but Mac couldn’t drum up enough interest to even flirt. They probably both had syphilis, and when he started thinking
that
way when he saw a good-looking woman, he could tell that he’d had enough to drink.

When had Nassau turned so boring? Even drinking in a dive like this—where a fight was usually only moments from erupting, usually over one of those whores—seemed…tiresome.

“So.” Robert leaned his tall frame against the flimsy chair back, and grimaced for a moment. “Are you angry-drunk or sad-drunk?”

“Neither.” Mac tried for a cocky grin. “I’m just thinking.”

“Too bad,” his friend muttered before downing the glass of rum. “I always like you when you’re angry-drunk.”

“You like to fight, and I’m a convenient excuse.”

“You’re good at starting fights, at least.”

It was an old bone between them. Mac had learned to fight from Robert—and Holt—but both men were an inch or two taller than he was. Mac made up for it by being a damned good brawler, and hard to put down. Whereas both his brother and his best friend had learned to control their emotions, Mac had always been passionate… about all sorts of things. That little flaw meant that when he had a little drink in him, he tended to get more offended—and be more offensive—than usual. At least once during every visit to Nassau, Mac would start a fight that Robert gladly joined in.

Still, he rolled his eyes at his friend. “At least I’m around to finish them.”

“Mostly upright, even.”

“Mostly.” His inability to think before he dove into a fight meant that Mac often ended with more bruises and blood than his friend. Although he assumed that was because no one in their right mind would attack Robert when Mac himself was busy attacking.

“So.” Robert downed the drink in his hand. “You’re not angry-drunk. You must be sad-drunk.”

“I’m not drunk at all.” Mac was certain that being able to defend himself meant that it was true. Fairly certain.

“All right, thoughtful-drunk then.” Robert’s humor was subtle, but after years together, Mac knew when he was being teased. “Maudlin-drunk. Defensive-drunk?”

“Shut up.”

His friend poured himself another drink, and Mac shifted lower on the bench. “So, what’re you thinking about?”

Mac didn’t answer for a long minute; he stared at the women across the way. He took a deep breath and held it. When he finally released it, he felt some of the antsiness leave, too. “You ever think it might be time to quit?”

“Quit drinking?”

“Quit the business.”

“Quit sailing?” Robert couldn’t hide the surprise in his voice.

Mac scowled at his friend. Quit the sea? “Don’t be stupid.”

“Ahh.” Robert drank the rum, and picked up the bottle again, pretending great interest in the label. “Then you’re talking about the
other
business.”

“Yeah. No. Hell, I dunno.” Mac closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of the rough wood behind his head. “I keep thinking how lucky we—you—have been.”

“Your neck is just as much at risk as mine,
Captain
.” The title made Mac snort quietly. It was true; the
Polaris
was his, and he captained her, but he’d never wanted to be a leader. He didn’t have much use for men who told others what to do, and didn’t want to end up like them. He and his crew were a team. He was theirs as much as they were his.

Mac ran that last thought through his head again, and it didn’t sound any better. Maybe he
was
drunk.

“Maybe.” He drummed the fingers of one hand against the table. “But they’d at least give me a trial. You, they’d string up as soon as someone pointed a finger at you.”

Neither of them had to ask which
they
the other meant. It wasn’t a secret that Mac didn’t much like the men who made up Charleston society. He wasn’t even especially close to his own brothers anymore. He lacked patience in general, but particularly when it came to a bunch of sons of bitches who thought they had the right to lay down laws on their fellow man. Mac didn’t like being told what to do at the best of times, and being told what to do by a bunch of old, bitter ex-Rebels didn’t suit him too well. They’d lost, and they’d lost their rights to force anyone—including Mac—to do their bidding.

“The Army—”

“—Would’ve given you trial, yeah. Probably. Maybe.” Mac sighed. “But the Democrats…”

Since Rutherford Hayes’ election, the Republicans had backed out, leaving South Carolina to the same damn ex-Confederates who ruled her twenty years ago. Black men had a few measly years of freedoms, but groups like the Red Shirts and the Klan were going to make sure they lost what little rights they’d earned.

“Damn Hayes for knucklin’ under.” Robert was right. The South had lost the war, and a mere twelve years later, the occupying North was backing out. The Army was going home, and leaving the governing to the states. The people of Charleston were rejoicing, claiming that the North had capitulated after all. “Sayin’ that we’re all one country again.” Mac could hear the bitterness in his friend’s voice. “That’s bullshit.”

For twelve short years, the South had been an occupied country, controlled by the victors in the war the Southerners had lost. The US Army made sure that the South followed federal laws, and it angered the hell out of the ex-Confederates. Hell, it’d angered Mac.

But it also meant that black men like Robert had rights he wouldn’t have dreamed of when growing up as a slave. They both knew that once Hayes pulled the Army out, those rights would disappear; there’d still be laws, but no one in charge would enforce them. The Freedman’s Bureaus wouldn’t be able to stand up to a bunch of determined bigots.

Things were changing, and as far as Mac and Robert were concerned, it wasn’t for the better. When the Republicans had been in power, the South had been ripe for the plucking. The people desperate for the luxury goods they’d missed out on during the long war years. Men like Mac—men who were willing to bring in those goods with a minimum of questions asked and tariffs paid—made their fortunes. The fact that the job came with the chance to thumb his nose at the new taxes and regulations the US Government had imposed was its own reward.

In the long silence, Robert spoke again. “So you’re thinkin’ they catch us and string me up for smuggling, even though I’m
obviously
just a poor black man led astray?”

This time Mac’s snort was audible, and he even managed a grin. “I’m not saying it’s a guarantee.”

“An’ while this is happening, you’re just standing around, watchin’ me die?”

Mac’s eyes flew open then, not so much at the words, but the bleakness in his friend’s voice. “You know I wouldn’t do that.”

“So you’d start another fight you couldn’t finish.”

The two men stared at one another across the dirty table, their eyes speaking more than they could ever say. They’d saved one another’s lives enough to know that neither would let the other die. Still, Robert’s teasing couldn’t dispel the bolt of unease that went through Mac at the thought of his friend facing punishment.

“Maybe…”

“Ain’t no
maybe
about it, Mac. You’d jump in, and they’d kill you, too.” Robert finally downed his drink. He stared into the empty glass. “I ain’t keen on dyin’, and I don’t want you to die for me.”

“Fair enough. I ain’t ready to die yet, either.”

Robert poured himself another drink, and Mac could tell when his friend was very clearly not looking in his direction. “So, why the sudden concern about our necks? We’ve been doing this for years.”

He was right. Mac sighed and leaned his head back against the wooden beam and closed his eyes again. “I dunno. Just thinkin’ lately.”

He’d been seventeen when he’d gone to sea for the first time, signing with an English ship bringing relief supplies to Charleston. Robert had come along, because the two of them were inseparable by then. They’d been home only occasionally in the years after, content to see the world from the deck of a steamer.

Holt had given him grief about being away from Baird’s Cove, but Mac had never loved the plantation the way his brother did. The older man had retreated there after the war, and basically become a hermit in the years since. He was after Mac to marry and have a few sons, so that Holt could pass the responsibilities of Baird’s Cove on to someone else, but the idea was laughable. Mac wasn’t about to settle down and give up his freedom, just because his brother needed an heir. He still had years of adventures ahead of him.

When their mother had died, he taken the last of his inheritance, combined it with what he and Robert had saved from their years on the steamers, and purchased the
Polaris
. She was a schooner, perfect for the small import business he’d started to ship rum from Nassau up to Charleston, and she represented complete freedom. He didn’t have to listen to orders when he was on board her… he didn’t have to call anyone “sir” and he got to make his own schedule. Baird Shipping brought in a modest income for him and his crew, and allowed him the chance to live life with no rules, no boundaries.

The money he made on the side smuggling lace into the city was a bonus. They could quit that, and turn completely legit, and still have the autonomy to sail wherever they wanted.

But lately, he’d been wondering if maybe there was more to life. His dream had always been the freedom the
Polaris
represented… but that dream was starting to feel too small.

“How long’ve you been thinkin’ this?” Robert’s low rumble interrupted his musings.

“Few weeks, now.”

Robert finally took that drink, and Mac heard him swallow. “So, just about the time we finally got to meet Creel.”