Chapter 33
Jack Rackham didn’t look at her, not once that night, though he stayed in the smoky main room of the Jubilee until only five men remained.
His deliberate not-looking drove Anne mad.
The remaining sailors in the tavern nursed another round of drinks while shuffling cards and gambling into the morning hours. The hearth fire had turned to ash.
Anne willed herself not to glance over at Jack as she and Read finished scraping hogfish off the plates from dinner. Was this the feeling of falling for someone, this constant, unpleasant illness?
No matter what it was, she’d treat it like seasickness. Best to keep an eye on the horizon ahead. Best to think of anything but the swirl in her gut. Outlast it.
“You can go home,” Anne said with a jaw-cracking yawn. “I’ll finish the rest.” It had to be three in the morning.
“I went home early yesterday,” Read said, drying off a fork and moving to scour another. He tilted his head to where Anne usually slept behind the bar. “Your turn.”
Anne stiffened. Now that Jack knew she slept there, she didn’t want to draw attention to it. Others could be watching who weren’t so charming. And Jack, she already knew, would wage another siege and demand she find herself a proper bed. His bed.
It was too much to think about.
Read studied her, then put down the drying towel. “Come, give me your wrist again.”
Anne’s reflexes were slow, but Read grabbed a hold anyway. Again, it made Anne tense. “Do you remember what I taught you?”
Anne tried to mimic the swing of her hand, but didn’t get far. They switched, with Anne gripping Read.
“Watch closely,” Read said. “You can evade who tries to grab your arm by using their own arm against them.” He demonstrated how to hook a fist behind the opponent’s wrist, then follow through in a clean, sharp circle.
“Again,” Read said, showing the move again, but faster.
“Let me try,” Anne said. She took a breath, then executed the motion. It worked on the very first attempt.
“Half the battle is getting away. The other part,” Read said, “is not escalating the situation. Move swiftly and decisively if you’re backed into a corner.
But if you are serving patrons, recover with a false laugh or a playful tickle—batting your eyes or offering a flirtatious compliment, if you can stomach it. Insulted men lash out.”
“Where did you learn this?” Anne said, eyes wide. What if she’d known it the day Nathaniel assaulted her?
“On a ship a very long time ago.”
Anne leveled a look at Read, and Read did not flinch away from her intense gaze. Had he always had such long lashes? They reminded Anne of Ellen’s, leaving her a little heartsick. “Why do you always speak as if you’re a hundred years old? You can’t be more than—”
“Thirty-five.”
Same age as Jack, Anne noted. “So ancient,” Anne teased.
“Feels like it when you’ve lived a thousand lives.”
They resumed the clatter of washing and came upon a full flask. “Need a nightcap?” Anne asked.
“I don’t drink.”
“Why not?”
“That’s a personal question.”
Anne gritted her teeth and picked up another plate.
She felt almost scolded, like a child. What made that inquiry more insensitive than the others earlier?
It was difficult to speak with Read when he clearly had no interest in revealing anything of substance about himself.
It was the opposite of talking with Jack.
So much openness. Connection. She admired Read, but why did he always shut her out?
“Suit yourself. But go home. Truly, I insist. It’ll only be another half hour. ”
After a few more utensils, Read set down his rag. “Anne,” Read said, “there is something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” Anne glanced to where Rackham and the others continued their card game. One man, from his wallop, had clearly won the round. “Has Captain Rackham made any advances?”
That, Anne didn’t remark, was a personal question. “No,” Anne answered as casually as she could. Her mouth soured at what Read implied. And her answer was, Anne regretted, the truth. “What would give you that notion?”
Read leaned against the bar with a faraway look, considering one of the lanterns with a burned-out candle. “Just be careful,” he said. “Rackham is a known womanizer.” He retrieved his jacket, making an exit through the back door.
Anne pulled her hands from the soapy water, noting the pruny skin and red hangnails she’d chewed raw after Bonny betrayed their friends and abandoned her.
She’d had such a fine day—a lovely, wonderful day. Why did Read feel the need to ruin it? Had he and Rackham been friends? Rivals?
Was Read jealous?
No. She felt in her bones that wasn’t true, part of why she felt safer near him.
But did she want him to be jealous?
Anne dismissed the idea outright. A final shout from the lone table announced that the game was over.
A gangly Swede took the winnings. They offered a mix of curses and congratulations, their chairs scraping against the floor.
One man swayed like sea-grass in the wind.
Anne held her breath, knowing Jack would have something to say to her before the night was over. She had little ammunition left.
The others stumbled up the stairs in their clunky boots and Jack, as predicted, lingered. “You’ve been washing that mug for a while, Bon.”
“Before you say anything,” she said, raising a hand, “I want you to know up front that I’m not sleeping with you tonight.” It came out awkward and abrupt. But between Read’s warning and her own inexperience with these pesky feelings of—she’d admit it—attraction, she wanted to make her stance clear.
“Well, I’ll have you know that I’m not letting you sleep on the floor.
I tried it. And it’s a lousy bed. So where does that leave us?
” He took the mug from her hand and set it on the counter.
“Take my room,” he said, a gentleness to his plea.
“It’ll destroy my honor to let you suffer on this floor another night longer. I’ll stay here tonight.”
Anne massaged her temples. She’d already thought it all through. “If the cook, or the owner, finds you sleeping here, they’ll blame me. You’re a captain and a favored guest. I’m nobody.”
His face softened. “You’re not nobody.”
She dragged her palm down her face in exasperation. “Please?”
“How about a compromise?” Jack said. “And only if you agree. But hear me out. You say you will not ‘sleep with me tonight.’ If by ‘sleep’ you mean rest beside my person in the same bed, I take your point and respect your wishes. I have been known, on rare occasions, to snore. But, if by ‘sleep’ you mean ‘enjoy the delights of flesh,’ I think we can avoid such impulses and still set aside our current stalemate. We can reside in the same bed—a nice, comfortable, and appropriately large bed—both get an actual night of rest, and both put aside this impossible impasse.”
Anne tried not to gape. It was entirely mad. Did she trust him?
Did she trust herself?
“You swear you won’t be dishonorable?”
“I give my word.”
“Fine.” She crouched down and retrieved her hidden knife. “But I’ll warn you now—I’m bringing this.”
Captain Rackham did not snore, Anne noted with appreciation.
But lying in the cool dark, the ocean breeze making the glass panes tremble, she faced the wall with her mind ablaze like the sun at zenith.
After three rest-filled nights of this sleeping arrangement, three nights where Jack had proved infuriatingly true to his word—much to her everlasting gratitude and confusing disappointment—she wondered if she might sleep better under the bar downstairs after all. An uneasy hunger festered in her.
A gust threw the open window against the wall, and Jack stirred beside her at the sound, tossing over onto his side—facing her.
She froze until his steady breath resumed without interruption.
Rest, you fool. Jack doesn’t seem to have any difficulties sleeping. And your boss won’t have compassion if you crumple over a table from exhaustion.
Anne squeezed her eyes closed. But all she saw was the past few days with Rackham. Days filled with banter, nights sleeping back to back with tension tight enough to snap a rope.
And that rope was fraying.
Anne had demanded he turn his back to her when she changed into her secondhand dress for the evening, and she allowed herself only one peek, on the second night, when he removed his calico shirt by reaching back one muscled arm and pulling it over his head with a single motion.
Jack had a cluster of large freckles to the right of his spine and an inch-long white scar along his neck. The sight left her dizzy.
The wind continued to howl, and Anne silently cursed. That rattle didn’t help anything. She placed her bare feet on the wooden floor, then crept across the room to close the window.
There.
When she turned around, she saw that Jack had taken all of the coverlet.
She gritted her teeth and padded to the bed as noiselessly as possible. Slipping back onto the straw-filled mattress, she held her breath as she tugged the blanket back over to her side. He looked far too innocent.
To her horror, he rolled over again, throwing a heavy arm around her while continuing to sleep.
Her jaw dropped, and she didn’t dare breathe.
He’d offered his hand three times before, once on the Ranger as she climbed aboard, once on its decks, and once to pull her away from the endless dishes.
She remembered the singe of feeling along her fingers and her uneven pulse at his touch.
But he’d never—Holy God above—held her like a lover.
And he wasn’t even awake for it.
She spent a brave minute relishing the feel of his sturdy embrace before trying to wiggle away and free the coverlet.
But the blanket was tucked under his weight.
She sighed, loudly, then let her frustration loose.
“Damn you, Jack. You’re insufferable.” She yanked on the coverlet and his eyes flew open.
His eyes, his face, not even six inches away.
Jack took a moment to register her presence, then he smiled. “Something the matter, Bon?” He reached out a finger, then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
Her stomach lurched so hard she thought she might faint. No words came. He must have felt her shudder. After an unbearable pause, he moved his hand to trace her cheekbone, her chin, the dip of her throat. Time skidded to a halt.
A breathy sound escaped her lips, and she leaned deeper into his touch. This was how it was supposed to feel? What she’d been missing with James? She needed more, more, of whatever this was.
But who was she fooling? She knew. Oh, she knew exactly what this was.
And she burned for it.
Lying side by side, watching him watch her in the faintest glow from the lanterns on the street below, Jack said nothing.
He simply ran that single finger down her hot skin to the neckline of her dress.
Could one die of delight? Anne arched involuntarily, and he placed his other hand on the small of her back, pulling her closer into his hips. Her breath hitched.
Then that wicked finger slipped from the cotton of her dress and moved down, brushing over the swell of her breast until his thumb nudged her hardened nipple, and he squeezed.
She responded with an unmistakable moan and pushed herself into him, her lips—at long last—finding his mouth.
She leaned into the flame. He responded with more fire.
They tumbled over, mouth against mouth, body against body.
Jack pulled her onto her back, drawing away from the kiss to watch her face as she squirmed with pleasure, as one of his strong hands hiked up her skirt.
She melted into a glorious surrender—shutting her eyes to the room, her ears to the wind—and his hand found the heat between her legs. She gasped, digging her fingernails into his back and tearing off his nightshirt.
She tried to form words. To make a joke. To get on as they did. But this was a language without words. They ripped off clothes, and she gripped his hair. Skin warred against skin. A war against death and time and limits. A war against all the saints combined.
Then, with a skilled motion of his hand between her thighs, Anne’s vision blurred, and the stars exploded into gold.