Chapter Twenty-Four
Twenty-Four
In the weeks immediately following the discovery of the wanted poster, I am plagued by nightmares of Jeffrey Reuter’s silent scream, the fathomless black ocean, and—perhaps most disturbingly—my father.
Though they have decreased in frequency over time, I still occasionally wake in a cold sweat, trembling and gasping for air like I am once again running for my life down the cobblestones of High Street.
This morning as I am jerked into wakefulness, Captain Sharpe’s arms are already drawing me into his bare chest. I turn to him in the bed we now share and bury my face in his neck. His hands slide along my back, his even breathing steadying my own.
“You’re all right, Kitten,” he whispers into my hair.
I know he is right, and yet as I allow my fingertips to trace the lines of his tattoo, it still takes my body some time to relax.
I want to ask him about these designs, but his hands slide under my shirt, and his lips against my ear send hot chills through me.
Finally, when I feel myself again, I tilt my head back in silent permission and his mouth is on mine.
He tastes like sea salt and last night’s port.
His weight on top of me is familiar and comfortable as he pushes me back into the mattress.
I let my thighs fall open to accommodate his hips as he settles between them.
This has become our daily morning ritual: gentle, slow explorations with hands and mouths. It has gone no further than that.
Not for lack of want or trying, of course.
Once, Captain Sharpe had just managed to get his hand into the front of my trousers when the call of “Sail ho!” disrupted our attempts at amorous congress.
We are likewise interrupted this morning: Just as Captain Sharpe rocks his hips forward to create the most perfect friction between us, there is a knock at the door.
My moan dies in his mouth, swallowed by the growl he gives as he sits back. “What?” he calls.
“I need to talk to you, Reggie.” Mr. Tydes.
Sharpe sighs and offers me an apologetic smile before he climbs out of the bed, pushing open the curtain to let in a rush of brisk November air.
I gasp and pull the blankets up over my bare thighs, just in time for Captain Sharpe to pull a shirt over his head and say “Come in” without a thought for what it might look like to have both of us scrambling to cover up, with me still on my back in the bed.
Mr. Tydes, for what it’s worth, is unwavering in his love for his captain—and therefore, tolerant of me. He spares me the briefest glance before turning to Captain Sharpe. “The men think they saw sails last night but couldn’t tell in the fog.”
“Who was on watch?” Sharpe sounds exasperated.
I slide off the bed, uncomfortably aware of my bare ass under my shirt as I move quickly towards my trunk to find a pair of trousers.
“Naeem and Jacoby.”
New members of the crew, with considerably less experience at sea than the other men.
Sharpe nods as he tucks in his shirt. “Right. Let’s go talk to them.
” He pulls on his boots and, much to my surprise, takes me by the chin and pulls me up for a kiss—right in front of his first mate.
I deliberately do not look at Mr. Tydes as I return the kiss, then immediately lower my head as I finish pulling on a pair of dark green trousers.
As I search for a waistcoat in the pile, I hear the door click shut behind me.
Our progress up the British colonies was a slow one.
We made our way from port to port, trading in goods stolen from merchant ships.
Now we sail in European waters once more.
Our crew has grown in number over the last two and a half months.
We have raided four ships, two of them carrying captives and two carrying goods.
Sharpe’s men dispatched the captain and crew of both slave ships, freeing the surviving captives and leaving them with a few men from the Deliverance to teach the others to sail.
Others were welcomed into our crew, settling in far more efficiently than I had.
This, I have realized, is Sharpe’s purpose on the sea.
He is merciful to the crews of trade ships.
They are rounded up and held at gunpoint as their ship is robbed, but they are left alive, unless they try something heroic.
On the slave ships Sharpe is a different man. No member of the crew is left alive.
It’s easy to tell what kind of ship we’re approaching, even before the men board. You can smell the slave ships before you can see them, which gives the men plenty of time to prepare for an assault.
I don’t take part in the raids, but after, the twins help me record everything we have taken or traded, including men.
Those who have joined our crew are fiercely loyal to Billy and Captain Sharpe from the get, and they are welcomed by the crew without hesitation.
I have had time to adjust to the title of pirate, though in truth I do very little real pirating.
The men who joined us more recently are still confused about my role on the ship.
I have heard them refer to me as the scribe in passing—but others have muttered less flattering things about the kind of services I likely provide to the captain behind closed doors.
At first, I admit, those comments troubled me. But as the weeks have passed with me permanently sharing Captain Sharpe’s living quarters, and none—or almost none—of the crew questioning it, I have become less and less concerned.
Renard has committed to avoiding me, especially since Sharpe has begun to show his favor towards me in more public ways. It’s a little like a pissing match at times, but Renard won’t stand against his captain. Even if he is a right shit.
I still can’t get his accusation out of my head, though.
I’m too much of a coward to confront him about it—but surely he knows Reuter’s death was not my doing.
Captain Sharpe would have explained it to him.
I can only assume he said it to be cruel.
It feels irritatingly similar to the political intrigues with rivalrous classmates at Eton—but at least they never gave any false impressions as to their opinions on me. I considered Renard a friend.
“Ye missed breakfast,” Trevor announces cheerfully as I step out on deck. The fog is dense and heavy; within moments, the hair at my temples is damp.
“Look at ye, in yer fancy jacket,” Tristan coos, earning him a scowl from me. “Looks a bit tight.”
He’s right, it is a bit tight—but it’s chilly, and I miss wearing my jackets.
Trevor tosses me an apple and leans against the stairs of the quarterdeck. “We miss ye bunkin’ with us, Kit.”
I’m not sure when he and Tristan stopped calling me Mr. Kit and got comfortable enough to call me just Kit.
I don’t think I noticed until sometime after it had already happened, but I’m glad for it.
Spending time with them now feels much more like passing the time with my chums at Eton than worrying about the social hierarchy of the ship.
“I don’t miss bunking with you lot,” I say with a grin, before biting into my apple.
“Naeem says he saw a frigate on the horizon last night,” Tristan says, ignoring me.
“Naeem shouldn’t have been on night watch without someone more experienced,” Trevor sighs.
“Renard knows better than to put two new recruits on watch together,” I say with a frown as I watch the shadows of Captain Sharpe and Mr. Tydes through the fog on the starboard bow, passing what’s likely a spyglass between them. “What was he thinking?”
Trevor shrugs. “Cap’n won’t be pleased,” he says. “We’re too near the continent for him to be so reckless.”
“Don’t let him hear ye sayin’ that,” Tristan whispers.
“What’s he gonna do?”
“Yer just feelin’ brave ’cause yer talkin’ to Kit, ’n’ he’s scared of Kit.”
“He’s not afraid of me,” I say with my mouth full. I swallow my bite of apple and wipe the corner of my mouth with my thumb. “He just finds me wanting.”
“He’s jealous ’cause the cap’n is buggerin’ you.”
That comment earns Tristan a shove from me, but he just laughs as he stumbles forward a step.
The twins are the only people who know the truth about Captain Sharpe and myself, because when we find moments to sneak away into our hiding spot in the hold, I feel safe enough to tell them about it in hushed whispers.
The truth being that Captain Sharpe is not buggering me… yet.
Trevor has no interest in men in that way, but he’s curious all the same.
Tristan, however, is a wellspring of questions on the topic.
Because they know so much, they tease me relentlessly when they think no one can hear them.
I don’t mind, because they keep my secrets for me, though they assure me the men likely wouldn’t care much either way.
“He’s not—” is all I manage to get out before the boom of a nearby cannon rips through the air. No one on board has time to react before the entire ship surges—and the rigging overhead shreds, crashing down around us.