Hook & Jill (The Hook & Jill Saga) (30 page)

Creeping through the mottled light of the underbrush, it was invisible but for the blood-red eyes. Unblinking eyes. The squawkings of the parrots and the roarings of big game affected it not at all. More interesting to its ear were the sounds of monkeys overhead, chattering among the trees. A family jumped and quarreled above, too noisily to hear the swish of flesh on the grass. These plump primates were entirely too free, plucking at one another, frisking and irreverent, and unaware of the predator below. The leaves among the branches rustled and the limbs bounced, and not one of the family saw— nor heard— the murderous log rising.

Parallel to the forest floor, inches above it, the smiling monster looked up in silence, parted its jaws, and floated higher. The monkeys raced up and down their branch, innocent of evil. They never had time to scream.

* * *

“Rowan. Lightly.” The Old One beckoned from her post on a shady blanket outside the council lodge. Her granddaughter leaned down to support her as she adjusted to sit upright. The old eyes didn’t miss the look the maiden aimed at the men, black-lashed and coy. The girl was learning to use her weapons. The woman gestured to the braves and they sat down cross-legged in front of her, politely ignoring the girl and waiting respectfully.

“Trouble stirs your spirit. What have you seen?”

Eagerly, Rowan answered, “We have been at the mercy of the Black Chief, and he allowed us to go in peace. He said for the woman’s sake, Lightly and I must stay on our mountain.”

Concern etched Lightly’s face as his gaze sought the crone’s. “Hook sends warning that he knows of our talks with Peter. Two of my brothers are now among his crew. They must have told him.”

The Old One closed her eyes and leaned against the lodge. White wisps of hair straggled in the breeze. “So now it is brother against brother?” After a moment she opened her eyes and shook her head. “No, the council has acted wisely to deny the boy’s request. You will bear the message to him in the morning.”

The friends’ shoulders relaxed, and they sent each other relieved glances. Rowan turned to the woman to lay down the other matter that troubled his spirit. “Old One, we have seen my mother. I ask what the elders decided.”

She blinked slowly. “Rowan, Lily and the others have broken with tradition. It will take time for the tribe to understand.” She looked from Rowan to Lightly. “Always, there is fear of the new.”

With a heart too stout for silence, Rowan frowned. “Fear of a new baby?”

Her bent posture grew rigid. “It is not like you to take advantage of my good will. But I understand that you begin to think for yourself, and that is well. No, not the baby, but the father. We have never allowed relations with the pirates, and the People distrust the unknown, the untried. But it is my hope that by her example, Lily will teach us to open our minds.” She reached up to her granddaughter, who slipped her hand in the wrinkled one. “And our hearts.”

Rowan set his hand, strong and brown, on his partner’s knee. “She has already taught me that much.”

She patted his arm, her touch skimming his skin like a whisper. “You have the courage of a warrior. I need no naming ceremony to understand that. But it will take place at the next moon.”

Lightly smiled at Rowan, and watched him grow taller. The girl with black lashes giggled.

The young men ignored her, politely.

* * *

When she woke, she was in his bed, on his ship, in the sea. The wind had risen and the ship rocked her like a cradle. Through the open window floated the endless hushing of the bay waters. Alone in the captain’s quarters, Wendy’s wild energy had been directed into a plan of action, and over time she eased into the rhythm of the waves, soothed by the long, reassuring words of the sturdy wooden beams that held his world together.

She sat up, alert to her situation. Here, in this place that knew him so intimately, the force of his presence lingered. Yet even as she had lain with his nearness, he allowed her solitude and reflection. Now the flame he had ignited was steadier, but it still burned.

Once again her flesh began to prickle with both panic and anticipation. Her heart sped. She seized the bottle and tipped it up to drain the last swallow of rum, tasting it thoroughly before releasing its fire to flow all the way down to the pit of her stomach, and lower. She couldn’t stop herself from writhing in its heat, nor did she wish to, and her back arched and her legs moved instinctively, while the palms of her hands pushed at them. She was alone, waiting for the mystery, and he whom she had chosen to guide her through it.

Feeling under the pillow for the sharp metal of her dagger, she reassured herself, then rolled off the bed to stand for an uneasy moment, regaining her sea legs. The cabin was dark, with one thick candle shining in a lantern. It hung near the day bed, and her heart sank as she perceived the carving of the imprisoned swan. She remembered now; she was no longer the Wendy-bird. And soon she would no longer be Wendy. She was locked in this beautiful cage by her own desire. And his. Her lip lifted in distaste; Pan with his medicine had, ironically, sealed his Wendy’s fate.

Other changes had occurred while she slept. The Oriental runner vanished, and in its place were satin slippers. The couch appeared to be recovered in splendid colors. Wendy pushed herself away from the bed and stepped toward it, light-footed. There on the couch were her things, the plunder from the hideout— her pouches of powder and shot, her book, even her eagle feather.

Softening, she lifted the book, handling it as if it brimmed, like a cup full of wine. She touched it to her lips as if to sample it. And then she embraced it with all her heart as she smelled the dry scent of leather and it carried her back to the hours before, and ahead to the hours to come. She shivered, releasing a cascade of warmth to flow into her limbs. Tucking the book in her palm, she raised her green-gauze skirts in both hands and held them to her face, closing her eyes, breathing in his scent and falling in with the motion of the sea.

Wendy dropped her skirt to reach for the feather, drawing it across her cheek with bittersweet pleasure. She looked toward the bookcase waiting by the door, then paced to it and back, and back once again to stand in front of it. Lifting the glass cover, she ran her hand along the leather ridges until an opening showed her fingers where to shelve the volume. She slipped it in, her fingertips assuring it was set all the way back, intact and in line with the others, as if it had never gone adventuring. Then, betraying its secret, she laid the feather along the shelf in front of it. The glass caught the candlelight as she replaced the door, and her reflection fell across the books. Just a silhouette, a shade of a storyteller, anonymous over her tales. Quite naturally, the darkest one of all came to mind, and his counterpart. She knew the ending, now, and she looked at her black self and, once again, smiled darkly.

Now that the familiar was set aside, she turned to examine the unfamiliar. The slippers were soft and delicate. Not much use. Wendy laughed and cast them away. She’d have boots made soon, of a much tougher material— smirking, she shifted her gaze toward the doorway— the hide of an enemy.

Next she handled the hair brush, tortoise-shell. Hours ago, Mr. Smee combed her hair with his fingers, and Wendy had shied from them. Yet as the man unbraided and smoothed it, his hands proved as tender as his features were rough, and he tamed her tangles, to a degree. But she hadn’t seen a brush since Long Ago, and never one as fine as this. It fit into her hand. She ran it through her hair, once, to try it, then over and over until it didn’t catch any longer and her hair lay sleek and shining in the lantern light, spilling over her shoulder. Her head tilted, her eyes closed as she repeated the motions. The brush and the bo’sun reintroduced her to a ritual. She had forgotten, living with boys, the pleasure of brushing her hair.

Then the gowns. The gowns were exquisite. Simple, fine. She had only to choose a color. She found it right away and held it up, her back to the others. Its sheen invited her to touch it. She hugged it to her body, one hand on her breast, the other making free with the fabric, coarse texture under deceptive luster. Taffeta, sturdy but gleaming. She danced it to the bed, laid it out, and shed her doeskin girdle.

“An admirable choice.”

Wendy whipped around, her tension rebounding at once. His hand came out of the darkness, becoming solid as he lit the candles. His robe fell open to reveal his skin, golden in the growing light, marred only by his leather strap. Hook was sitting behind his desk, one knee up, one foot resting on the edge.

She drew breath, unnerved. “I should have known you were here.”

“You would have known, had I wished you to know.” He lit all the candles before he spoke again. His beard, his face, were black and bright, a charcoal sketch, and his golden earring pierced the night. His mouth was grim. “You have not been completely alone, after all.”

For the first time she noticed his boots standing ready by the bunk, and her pulse surged within her. Their presence reinforced the fact she had finally come to accept: Hook was real. Searching for distraction, delaying the inevitable, she allowed something else to catch her eye, on the shelf of the bed. She picked it up and approached the desk, skirting his boots. The contents of the crystal vial glowed in the candlelight, as brilliant as the leather was black.

Wendy met his stare without shame. “I stole it, but the magic didn’t work.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Stealing from me?” He clicked his tongue. “No honor among thieves.” Then he smiled, satisfied. “So you are truly ensnared in my net. Had you wished to leave me, you would have flown.” His eyes reflected the candles, watching her.

She set the crystal down and scraped it forward over the desktop, past the ugly gash. “Then you know what fairy dust can do! And you allowed it?”

He gathered his long legs and sat up. “I allow it, I insist upon it. It is the only way for you. But we are no longer talking terms of an agreement. Like the other members of my crew, you are free,” his smile was sardonic, “as a bird.”

“But I thought… I described you as the tyrant of the
Jolly Roger
.”

“So I am. And like all pirate captains, the authority I wield is given me, not by law, but by my men.” He stood and stepped around the desk to look down at her. “They, like you, have chosen me over other masters. And whatever power you and I hold over one another we have placed in each other’s… hands.” He reached for hers and held it fast.

Her cheeks warmed. She knew it now, just as she had known in the moments before she gave him her hidden kiss. Another waiting time was at an end. “Our time alone is done. Show me what I have placed in your hands.”

Pulling her closer, he searched deep in her eyes. After solemn study, he dropped her hand and swept past her, his robe sending a draft that guttered the candle flame and rushed against her bare arms. He plucked the dress from the bed and crossed to throw it on the couch. When he had shed his robe, it followed the dress, sprawling on top of it. Hook turned to her, the glorious conqueror she had made him, shining in the flaming light. “No more delays, then. Come to me.”

She caught her breath. “Aye… Captain.” And with her insides in tatters again, she moved to his side and gave herself up to his will.

“Look at me.” She did. She looked to his handsome face, stern now as he shook his head. “All of me.”

She obeyed him, her blood beating against her skin. But before confronting the harness, she concentrated on his tattoo, the black flag. He followed her gaze. “You know my story. Blackbeard was not eloquent, but as a young man I found his arguments persuasive.”

She remembered his history. The details were becoming clearer now. “You impressed your own mark upon him before the end. But Roger was a perfect choice for you. He has been your closest friend.”

Hook placed his hand on her upper arm, considering. “He will look well on you.”

“Me?”

His eyes barely narrowed. “Once aboard my ship, it is all, or nothing.”

“I want nothing less than all.” And she touched his mark, and stroked it. Then she slid her hand to his leather strap, following it across his chest. She braced her back and fixed her grip on the clip, but he stopped her with his own.

“My hook will tear just once tonight.” He slipped his arm behind her shoulders. “My fairy has taught me the charm.” She looked at him, puzzled, then felt his hook dragging at the back of her dress. It sank, cleaving the uncleavable fairy gauze with only a whisper. He yanked the remnants off her shoulders and left them to shiver in shreds to the floor. Hooking her hair, he pulled it forward to lie on her breast. His lip twitched; his eyes swept over her. “Yes, you are my mermaid.” And before she could feel anything, he kissed her into carelessness.

Until he recaptured her hand, and directed it to the clasp. His whiskers scraped her ear as he whispered, “Know me, now!” She gazed into his dark blue eyes and next moment found she had opened the clip. His chest swelling with a slow intake of breath, he shrugged his brace away, to drop on the floor with a sullen beat. She looked down at the hook, inert at their feet. She sensed Hook himself lost nothing by its absence, and her heart was pounding. He raised his empty wrist and caressed her shoulder. Shuddering, she felt the ship pitch, but when his arm circled round again, she lifted her eyes to behold it. He watched her face. And then he smiled.

Her face was set, but she didn’t flinch. As panic coiled in the pit of her stomach, she took it all in, the rude ending of his arm, his ragged flesh, the scars tearing every direction— and his pain. She winced, and her arm jerked as her own wrist flared with flame, white hot. Searing.

Far sooner than the torture he had endured, hers was over. The tension eased, and the coil of her belly relaxed. She raised her hand. Gingerly, she placed it under his arm and forced herself to look until she ceased to feel the shock and his interrupted limb became her own. With her fingertips, she touched his scars. Tough and tender.

Her head tilted as her gaze traced its way up. There, beginning just above the cut, was another tattoo. His mermaid wrapped her tail around his arm. In her hand she held a sickle. Her tresses floated about her shoulders and clung to her breast.