Chapter 31
“The bearded fellow in the corner needs more ale,” muttered a barmaid juggling three plates as she made for the kitchen.
Anne bit her lip, then glanced left. The sailor in question sat at the same enormous dining table as Jack Rackham, though at the opposite end. The fellow raised a glass and threw his head back with a rancorous chortle. Was that gravy in his beard?
Anne had determined to spend the entirety of the evening—until the last man took to a bed upstairs or stumbled up the road to find a brothel—avoiding that table. It was one thing to encounter Jack when he was an equal in the street. It was quite another to meet him in a tavern as a waitstaff peon.
“No time for idleness,” the owner snarled behind Anne before shouldering past her. The room roared with noise and festivity.
Anne grabbed a pint in each hand and gripped them hard. Sweat glazed her forehead, which she wiped against her forearm. She could deliver the ale, then flit away quicker than a hummingbird. Her heart pounded like the wings of one.
Dodging the jolly drinkers and angling between chairs, Anne slipped the ale in front of the bearded sailor and reached for his empty mug, just as the man grabbed her wrist.
“Now, who’s this fine lass?”
Anne jerked away, but his fingers wrapped tighter.
A curse boiled in her mind, and she grimaced to keep from snapping.
She felt a shiver down her spine, the bone-deep recoil left from Nathaniel.
She couldn’t react or speak her mind while the owner stood a mere ten feet away.
Not with such “esteemed” company. She hadn’t had the training or experience of the other barmaids on how to humor drunken, manhandling patrons. What the Devil was she supposed to do?
“Are ye from the emerald shores? Hair’s a dead giveaway. I’m a Scotsman myself.” He belched. It was then that Anne saw that it was indeed gravy congealed in his beard. “We’ve been too long at sea, too long without the company of a pretty face.”
Her cheeks burned a hue that Mam used to warn would encourage new freckles. Anne hoped Captain Rackham wasn’t watching.
If she could loosen the sailor’s hand, appease his mood a little, she might succeed.
This isn’t Nathaniel.
I’m with others. I’m safe, she tried to tell herself.
I’m capable.
“A Scot, you say?” Anne said, unclamping his thick fingers one by one. A nervous noise like a laugh came from her throat. “When was the last time you saw home?” If she kept his attention on himself, and not on her, she might sneak away without notice.
“Not since the uprising,” he said, his face reddening. “Not since that ‘Old Pretender,’ James Stuart—”
“Good lady, excuse my interruption.” She felt the heat of him, standing behind her. Rackham spoke loud enough to cut through the deafening merriment. “We need another round of punch. We’re dry.” He slipped her a half-filled bottle of rum. “If you would be so kind.”
He placed a hand on the small of her back to turn her away, giving her distance from the Scot. She caught his gaze. His look asked, Are you all right?
She returned his stare with one brow raised. I had it under control.
Turning on her heel, she returned to the bar to fetch a fresh carafe.
“Anything else?” she said curtly when she returned to Rackham’s seat. The Scot, she saw from the corner of her eye, had continued on with his tale to all who would listen.
Rackham, Calico Jack, John—whoever he was—snagged her attention for a second too long. “That’ll be all for now.”
She was striding back to the kitchen with her head held high when she bumped into Mark Read.
“If you approach men from behind, you can slip away faster.”
Anne took a moment to respond. “You saw that?”
Read dodged another barmaid carrying steaming bowls of stew. The contents of one dribbled out the side, and Read dropped to mop it up with a rag.
Anne knelt, too. She wanted to tell Read all that had happened to her, to tell someone—anyone.
Of Nathaniel. Of the shiver she felt at the slightest touch.
She wanted to tell Read that she’d managed the situation better than expected.
That she was alone and afraid and lonely. That she needed a friend.
Instead, Anne muttered, “Captain Rackham stepped in to help. That’s something.”
Read finished wiping the floor, then he stared Anne right in the eye. What the bloody hell did that intense look mean?
Then, without warning, Read gripped Anne’s wrist.
Anne yelped. This time, she did curse, a sound muffled by the shuffle of chairs and rowdy conversations.
“Break my hold.”
“What the—”
“Break my hold. Try to get out,” Read repeated, calm as a waveless sea. “Pretend I’m a drunken brute and free yourself.”
Anne recovered, then moved to rip away. She felt sensitive to Read’s touch, and confused. She maneuvered right, then left, but Read’s grip remained.
“Clawing at fingers will get you nowhere,” Read said, dropping Anne’s wrist and offering up her own. “Quick, grab mine.”
Anne did as she was told, and Read moved fast as a blade: whipping his hand in a circle and breaking the grip in a single, powerful move. It was over in a blink.
“How—”
“Later,” Read said. The two stood, reorienting to the boisterous party. Anne felt her line of sight drift toward Rackham, who sat listening to an animated sailor to his right. Read noticed.
“I’ll see to that table for the rest of the evening,” Read said, tossing the rag to Anne. “There’s a shattered bottle under the barstool near the door. And Huxley could use some help preparing the dessert. He’s in a mood.”
The dining room of the Jubilee cleared out by four in the morning. Only a third of the guests remained behind, taking occupancy in the upper rooms of the tavern. The rest? Not even God knew. The streets of Nassau never slept.
And on this night, neither could Anne.
She curled up in her corner under the bar, as she had every night since her arrival a few weeks earlier.
Her head pulsed and her mind raced in the quiet darkness.
The smells of roasted meats and booze remained, mingled with the lingering tobacco smoked from clay pipes.
Huxley had saved scraps of the feast to divide among the staff, but it didn’t amount to much.
Anne turned onto her side and squeezed her eyes closed.
Her shoulder ached against the hard floor.
She tried counting sheep, as Mam used to do with her as a girl.
She tried focusing on the rise and fall of her chest, steadying her pulse with even breaths.
She tried screaming inside her head about all the reasons why she needed to fall asleep immediately, then—when that failed—she stared at the wooden beams of the cedar ceiling until all she saw was a ship, which brought memories.
At last, she undid her braid, hoping this might calm her headache.
The yellow alder fell out, a delicate thing she’d forgotten about.
With the scant light from the lanterns outside the windows, Anne could tell it had wilted into nothing more than spindly grass and shriveled petals.
By the Devil’s ass, Anne was terrible at keeping hold of anything. Or anyone.
She startled at the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. It wasn’t yet dawn. And after a long night, surely no one would stoke the fires until late morning.
She swallowed, remembering the knife she kept under her makeshift pillow—an abandoned, threadbare dress she’d found in one of the Jubilee’s upstairs bedrooms.
Craning her head to peek behind the bar, she saw a figure with a candle. He stumbled down the last step, then righted himself with a curse.
Him.
If she didn’t move, maybe he wouldn’t see her.
She held her breath as he ambled along the wall, then he stopped in front of the wine case a mere six feet away and rooted through the contents.
She could see his sun-bleached hair in the candlelight as it brushed his collarbone, his bare feet, the faint sight of his toned muscles through a thin cotton shirt.
He spoke so elegantly, so like true a gentleman, that it felt strange to see him looking like any other sea rogue in his nightshirt.
She closed her eyes, willing herself to disappear, to unsee what would only make this more torturous.
Don’t turn around. Don’t—
A decidedly ungentlemanly shriek told her the wishing hadn’t worked.
“What the hell are you doing out of bed?” Jack wheezed, recovering from the shock.
“I’m not out of bed, you halfwit! This is my bed.”
“Good Lord, you sleep here?” he shot in a whisper.
“Yes. You’re intruding on my bed.” She winced. She hadn’t meant it to sound like that.
“I’m not technically in your bed,” Jack said as he slumped against the opposite wall. He fumbled with the bottle, trying to uncork it. “You failed to invite me. I assure you, I would have remembered.”
Anne huffed. “Didn’t get enough to drink?”
“I can hold my liquor. Besides, there was too much catching up to do and minding after my surroundings”—he paused—“to properly relax.” The cork popped, and he lifted the bottle in triumph.
“You’re drunk.”
“I know my limits.”
He took a seat on the floor and faced her, his back against the brick wall.
This was nothing like Da’s tantrums and behavior, his slurred curses and cruel words, after a night of heavy drinking.
Maybe Jack wasn’t drunk after all. He set the candle down and surveyed Anne’s modest accommodations.
“Why are you sleeping under the bar like a barn mouse?”
“Why did you lie about your name?”
Jack smirked. “I didn’t lie. John is my Christian name.”
“The model of a proper Christian, no doubt.”
“You’re avoiding my question.”
Anne folded her arms. “I take safe lodging where I can find it.”
His brow raised and he took a swig. He passed her the wine and, after considering her pulsing headache, she pressed the bottle to her lips. The liquid burned all the way down.
“It’s not right for you to sleep here when the Jubilee boasts about having the cleanest beds in town,” Jack said. “I can bring this up with the boss.”
“Please don’t,” Anne said with horror. It’s all I have. I don’t want to be a nuisance. I don’t want to be back on the street.
“It’s either that or you take up my bed upstairs.”
She scowled.
“Without me! Good gracious, Anne, what an assumption,” he teased, swirling the contents of the bottle. “I’d be more comfortable here, so near the hospitality on offer.” He gestured toward the case behind him.
“I think the world might notice if we switched places.”
“Ah, that’s the wonderful thing about this town,” he said with a devilish smile. “Welcome to Nassau. Nobody cares, and nothing is shocking. Come now. Get a night of proper sleep—just one night. I’ll safeguard your precious sleeping quarters, Bon.”
Anne snapped her head and gaped. “What did you just call me?”
“Bon. I quite like it. Suites you better than a dainty little name like ‘Anne.’”
“You know.” She felt her gut clench. How? How did he know who she was?
“Aye,” he said, offering her another swig. “I made it my business to know. That’s the other wonderful thing about this town—no secrets.”
Anne stood and clenched her fists. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to pummel him or kiss him. Bloody hell, had she ever wanted to kiss a man? What was this infernal madness?
Jack merely watched, seemingly delighted by her rising temper—which enraged her all the more. “So it’ll be my bed, then?” he said.
“Answers. Now.”
He tutted. “Tomorrow. Get some rest; there will be time for all of that. You have my word. Besides, you know where to find me.” He made a grand, sweeping motion to the floor.
Anne gave him a murderous glare, then stormed up the stairs. Miserable man. Miserable, beautiful, infuriating man. She entered the only room with an open door and an absurd flower arrangement by the window. Either they were never intended for a lover, or the lover had failed to come.
Damn him. She’d sleep guilt free. She’d sleep until noon. She’d sneak around his room and gather every single trace of information about him before she emerged with her wits about her.
Sweet Jesus, she was tired.
Head on the soft pillow, eyelids heavy, it was only then that she remembered, with a sudden jolt, that she’d abandoned her knife.
She inhaled—too heavy to care, too light to feel scared anymore—the scent of milkweed blossoms perfuming the air.