New project!
His name is already a powerful thing the first time their eyes lock across the beach.
He's young. His shoulders have yet to broaden into the form of a man, the muscle lining his arms lithe and sinewy, but it doesn't stop him from striding through the shallows with the confidence of a man twice his age, swaggering down the sands amidst his crew. If the rumors are to be believed, he'll be the youngest quartermaster Nassau has ever seen.
And he knows it.
Even at thirteen, she's drawn to him. She's made it her business to know the politics of the island, to learn the crews and the ships and the captains. She's old enough to recognize her abilities already exceed her father's. Mr. Scott knows it too, if only he weren't so bound by fucking propriety to admit it.
Charles Vane doesn't give a shit about propriety.
Of all the eyes on the beach on him, hers are the ones he meets. Her breath catches, but she's already learning to control her reactions, so she lifts her chin and refuses to blink, because Eleanor Guthrie will be queen of this place one day and she bows to no one.
She expects him to look away first, to return to the merriment of the crew flush with what must be a hefty prize – if the mood of the men spilling onto the beach is any indication – but he lets the men go ahead of him and stays where he is. His brow lifts in challenge, his thumb hooking into his sword belt, and she's old enough to recognize the way his hips push slightly forward as his stance widens, his boots planted in the sand.
Control – men like him are all about it. Control over crews, control over the beach, control over women.
But if her father can't control her, Eleanor isn't about to let some pirate manchild do it either. So despite the fact that she is standing in the middle of the camps, a girl already growing into the curves of womanhood and all the attention that comes with it, she doesn't move. She watches Charles Vane, watches the sunlight glint in the metal woven through his braids, watches his fingers curl around the hilt of his sword – and doesn't give a shit if he knows it.
His expression flickers from curiosity to amusement, his lips curving into a smirk. But when she doesn't smirk back, when she merely holds his gaze with a tiny, goading smile, his amusement turns to annoyance, the already famous glower settling into his sharp cheekbones and slitted eyes. Still, Eleanor stands her ground, the rest of the beach fading from her consciousness until there is only the steely blue glare of Charles Vane to contend with, a battle she is now determined to win waging between them.
She is not afraid of him – not him, not Flint, not Teach. For as stupid as the men who roam the beach are, the ones who lead them are not stupid. They understand that without the Guthrie Trading Company, the entire island goes to shit. So they won't touch her, and if their men know what's good for them, they won't either.
In the end, she wins because his friend tugs his elbow, thrusting a bottle of rum into his hands, and he's forced to look away to deal with the tall, gangly boy at his side. She's adept enough at body language that she doesn't need to hear the fuck you that must leave his lips, and only then, his attention fully diverted, does she allow herself a small, satisfied laugh.
It's but another moment before the third of the trio makes an appearance, red hair bright under the merciless sun where it tumbles out from beneath a floppy, beaten leather hat. She's heard of that one too – Anne Bonny, a girl two years older than Eleanor herself, but with a ruthless reputation to accompany that of her friends.
And Eleanor wonders, not for the first time, what it would be like to be so utterly free. To step on board a pirate ship, to need no protection other than her own abilities – to be an equal to a pirate such as Charles Vane. But as quickly as the thought flits through her mind, she brushes it aside. Already she is learning the fruitlessness of desiring that which she cannot have, and instead turns her attention to obtainable quarry.
No, she will never rule Nassau from the bay – she will never be feared for her talent with a blade, but she will bring this island to heel. This place is in her blood in a way it's never been in her father's, and she will endure when he is finally run off by his own incompetence and weak mind.
-x-
It's hard to tell who is toying with who as the months go on. Eleanor wanders into the camps whenever it pleases her, Mr. Scott's admonishments and lectures ignored. There is something far more appealing about the honesty of the pirates, with their coarse language and blatant stares, than the rather irritating chess match she's been continuously engaging her father in.
Really, it should be more difficult to move the pieces about the board, but as thirteen gives way to fourteen, Eleanor begins to perfect her skills of manipulation. She plants the seeds of doubt in her father's competence, but never enough to sabotage the business completely. No, she has no problem rebuilding the mess he is sure to leave, but there is only so much ruin she can come back from. She's not stupid enough to burn the whole thing to the ground, but she knows her father, and she knows he will run at the first sign of smoke.
So rather than play the proper little lady, she roams the camps. She dices and she drinks and she curses as well as any of the men. It never fails to delight when she manages to surprise one of them, when she looks up from the torchlight's flickering shadows on a pitted and scarred table to find a grizzled pirate gaping at her like a fish.
She will never win this island by dicing, but she has never intended to. She uses her time in the camps to gather information. As wily as the captains are, there are few among their crews who understand the long game, who can see beyond the next prize, and those men have a habit of running their mouths the more they drink.
So Eleanor gathers their coin and their secrets from beneath her lashes, using her smiles and her brash, defiant nature to lure them into telling her all she could possibly want to know about the politics of the ships. She learns which captains succeed on sheer dumb luck, and which are power unto themselves. She learns which men command loyalty with fear, which with respect – and which with their name alone.
All the while, Charles Vane watches her.
She catches sight of him at the edge of the fires, silent, observing. It doesn't take long to sort out that he isn't terribly talkative, that his strength in some ways is not so different from hers. She is certain his two shadows, Rackham and Bonny, are also his spies. Jack gathers information by letting others believe he is a prattling fool, talking and talking and talking until the men grow so tired of the sound of his fucking voice that they forget the man is the right hand of Charles Vane, and Charles Vane is not foolish enough to keep an idiot at his side. And Bonny, well, she's a woman, and Eleanor knows just how easy it is to exploit the assumptions brought on by a pair of tits and a skirt – not that Anne would ever wear a skirt.
And Charles gathers all that information, and behind his watchful stare, she can see him plotting, planning, consolidating his power. He's quartermaster now, voted in unanimously by the men, and though he's younger than all of them, she sees the way the street gives him a wide berth.
But she also knows that as vicious as he can be, as hot as his temper blazes, the man has a purpose behind his moves, that his cruelty is just another knife he's sharpened into a formidable weapon. Like her, he is ambitious, and he refuses to be beholden to anyone save himself and, for the time being, his captain. He understands the power of his name already, understands that he can say more with a cold stare than with a tirade.
He knows that in not approaching her, he has issued a challenge. He will not speak first – he will make her come to him.
Except Eleanor knows that his new position will eventually result in him coming to her. At the moment, it is still her father and Mr. Scott who deal with the pirates and their hauls, but the more her father drinks, the more Mr. Scott becomes responsible for the running of things. Soon Eleanor will be positioned to do more than serve drinks in the tavern, and Charles will be forced to come to her to trade on behalf of his crew.
No more smirks from the edge of the campfires, no more laughter just over her shoulder in the tavern, no more holding her stare through a crowd of drunk men with his clear, intent gaze despite the quantity of rum he drinks – rum he always sends Jack to fetch.
So, no, she won't go to him, no matter what the weight of his stare does to her. She has grown up on an island of pirates, her father's tavern connected to a whorehouse. It is no mystery why her pulse throbs between her legs when the challenge in Vane's eyes shifts into a different sort of invitation, an invitation Eleanor might take him up on if she were a different person – or if he came to her and begged for it.
But he'll never beg, and that's precisely why she wants him.
There is also the talk of the women in the whorehouse that makes him an appealing prospect to teach her the pleasures of a man between her legs. Yes, he has earned her grudging respect, despite them never having spoken, but it also his manner of treating the women he pays for their company. The whores are some of Eleanor's greatest spies, and from them she has learned a great deal about the natures of the men they service.
But Eleanor is proud, and she is laying the foundation of an empire, so when Charles Vane stares at her, she stares back, and it is a rare thing she is the first to look away. The longer it goes on, the longer the contests last, and Eleanor doesn't give a shit who notices.
Because even though this game between them is sure to become personal, it is also good business. He is only the quartermaster, not the captain, but still his name is spoken on the island with the sort of reverence Teach and Flint command. He will be captain one day, and when Eleanor meets his challenge with one of her own, when she stares him down without an ounce of fear, the men and the street begin to realize the power she holds over him and the men like him.
She is a fortnight shy of sixteen when it happens, when her father departs the island in the dead of night, coward that he is, and leaves Eleanor to run the operation. Teach's crew is on a hunt, which suits her fine because when Vane saunters up to the trading desk, he has not heard that her father has departed and she is now the one to set terms.
His lips curve into a smirk when he spots her, amusement dancing in his pale blue eyes. He's filthy from the weeks at sea, and a barely healed cut is still crusted with blood across his cheek, but he has all the poise of a king as he lifts an eyebrow at her.
And then he waits.
Eleanor smiles pleasantly, leaning forward, knowing her shirt will gape, knowing from the way his eyes scour her body that it will draw his attention, but she doesn't speak.
"Have you business to discuss, Mr. Vane?" Mr. Scott's voice is thick with displeasure, and Eleanor knows there will be a price to pay for this display with the quartermaster, but in the moment she is content with the rush of victory, because now she has won.
After all their silent games, he has finally come to her.
To his credit, Vane sorts the situation for himself in a moment, his eyes narrowing as they dart from Mr. Scott to Eleanor. He doesn't give her the satisfaction of showing his surprise, and as they enter into the business at hand, he displays nothing but an infuriating amusement tugging at the edge of his mouth, his eyes raking over her body as blatantly in the noonday sun as they have in the camps where the shadows have hidden him.
"Pleasure doing business, Miss Guthrie," he drawls before he leaves, his rich voice a rumble over her skin. Another quartermaster waits behind him, but still he lingers, that damn smirk playing over his lips. "Until next time."
She watches him go, ignoring Mr. Scott's poor attempt at subtlety with his fake cough. It is only after the next prize is processed and the credit issued that Mr. Scott all but drags her further into the warehouse, out of sight of the men.
"I caution you not to trifle with Charles Vane, Eleanor." His voice is low, his brows furrowed and his fingers tight around her arms, holding her in place despite her attempt to shrug him off. "You are not invincible. He is one of the most dangerous men on this island."
"I know," she snaps, finally managing to shake him off. She levels him with her coldest glare, waiting for him to look away before she marches back to the tavern. No other ships are due back on the beach today, and the tavern will want tending as the two crews stream in.
She doesn't tell Mr. Scott she is perfectly aware of how dangerous Vane is – that it is his danger that makes him a suitable candidate for her plans. She is not naive enough to believe she will be able to rule this place with no one but Mr. Scott and her father's name to defend her, not yet. They have no reason to fear her, no reason beyond their ability to remember they rely on her trade to prosper, and that is a fact easily forgotten with enough rum and male posturing.
But if she can bring the meanest of them to her side, if she can conquer him, then she can conquer them all. She will use him to reach her ends, and if there's a bit of fun to be had along the way, why the fuck not?
-x-
Their stalemate over first words broken, a new game begins.
Eleanor doesn't lie to herself. She knows how this will end. But how they get there will establish the rules between them and the balance of power – and Eleanor intends to hold the lion's share.
What she doesn't count on is that Vane sees through her. He recognizes what she's about, and he toys with her as she toys with him. He invades her space, his fingers brushing against her skirts, her arm, and on more than one occasion, her breasts. He doesn't care if it's in the camps or the tavern that they meet, and though he keeps their brief conversations to business, the other offer is always there, just waiting for her to ask.
The delight he takes in teasing her is obvious, and it's even more obvious he makes no attempt to hide it. He has lifted his rum to her in a mockery of a toast while using his other hand to fondle a whore, and he has stood so close to her she can smell the smoke and salt and leather of him, without saying a word.
She begins to wonder which of them will break first, how much longer it can go on, but the answer comes in a manner she never accounted for.
A storm blows into Nassau, a shipkiller that brings all the crews within sailing distance into the harbor to ride out the worst of it. It's a smart move by the captains, but with rain lashing the beach and wind howling across the bay, the men have sought shelter indoors.
These are not men used to being long indoors.
Which means Eleanor's tavern is packed to the rafters with bored, drunk pirates before midday. And by the time evening has settled in, and there aren't enough whores to go around for the men to work off their restlessness, it is inevitable that the fights break out. She does the best she can shoving them out the door and into the rain to pummel each other in the mud and not inside her place, but when she grabs one of them by the shoulder, he spins around and punches her.
It hurts, it really fucking hurts, but the surprise of it gets to her more than the pain. He belongs to one of the lesser crews, and while Eleanor doesn't know his name, she knows his captain's – not that it does her any good. That crew is barely leashed at sea, and their camp is notorious for slit throats. The men are poorly disciplined, and if Eleanor could be rid of them entirely, she would. Their meager income is not worth the trouble they bring to the island, but she isn't strong enough yet to banish them.
There is blood in her mouth, and Eleanor draws herself to her full height as she narrows her eyes and spits at the man's boots, ignoring the coppery tang of blood on her tongue. "Get the fuck out," she snaps, refusing to back down as the tavern quiets, all eyes on them.
He hesitates, but then the bastard laughs at her. And she's about to open her mouth again, about to threaten him and pray he doesn't call her bluff, when she feels the heat of another man at her back, his boots heavy on the floorboards. In the space of a breath, the only sound the drumming of the rain on the roof, Eleanor realizes Vane has appeared from the shadows to stand behind her, the smoke from his cigar curling in the air, snaking around her and settling over her shoulders like armor.
She doesn't turn to look at him, doesn't acknowledge his presence. She is furious he's done it, furious he feels the need to interfere on her behalf, despite the fact that he says nothing, but she can't deny there is satisfaction in watching the other man pale and back down instantly.
The other pirate leaves with a muttered curse, but Eleanor doesn't relax, even as the roar of conversation returns to the tavern. She forces herself to breathe evenly, to hold her temper in check as she turns to confront Vane, because even if she knows she will not win with him in this moment, she will not be defeated by another man tonight.
But he's already returned to his table with his usual companions, as if he knows he's crossed a line and that to provoke her further would be unwise. And despite her desire to step into her office and shut out the racket, despite her wish to go upstairs and claim the sanctuary of her balcony to watch the storm rage without the stench of sour sweat and rum pressing in all around her, she resumes her place behind the bar and continues to pour rum as though the entire incident never occurred.
She tells herself that the game is a draw for the night, and she refrains from looking at Vane. Instead, she pours herself several measures of rum to numb the pain in her jaw, and glares at anyone who so much as dares glance at the bruise forming on her pale skin.
She knows he's still there, still feels him behind her, and when the hour grows late, she finds him alone, his boots on the table and a bottle of rum dangling from his fingers. Given the state of the storm, she doesn't bother to rouse the men who have passed out against walls and on tables, but she does set about cleaning the place up, firmly ignoring the heavy gaze of a pair of pale blue eyes.
"Eleanor."
She doesn't look at him even then, despite the fact he says her name as a lover would, a raspy caress that sends a shiver straight down her spine. Instead she snatches up the mugs left behind by Rackham and Bonny before walking away.
"You had no fucking right to interfere," she snaps when she realizes he's followed her into the galley, dumping the mugs in her hands into a wash basin. "I can handle myself."
"That so?" He arches a brow at her like he has so many other times, the light catching on the scar running through it. She has the most inexplicable urge to raise her fingers, to run them along that scar above his eye, to ask him where he got it, but instead she balls her hands into fists at her side and ignores the fact that she has a sink at her back and Charles Vane not a foot in front of her.
She doesn't have an answer, because the truth is, she doesn't know what the fuck she would have done if it wasn't for him at her back in that moment. She doesn't know how she would have made a man twice her size listen to her in the middle of a crowd of frustrated, drunk pirates, because she hasn't quite solidified her power enough to be feared.
But she'll be damned if she'll admit any of that to the man in front of her.
He takes a step closer, something shifting in his expression. It's a glimpse of the fierceness she imagines he displays on deck, and it's instinct to slap his hand away when he raises it toward the bruise on her cheek.
For some reason, that makes him smile, and his laugh washes over her, infuriates her, and she launches herself at him with a growl, her fingers curling to land a punch of her own. He sees it coming, catching her wrists and holding firm, and backs her up against the cabinets, the heat of his body seeping into hers.
"Wouldn't do that if I were you," he says quietly, a warning in his eyes even as he pushes his hips into hers to pin her in place.
"I'm not afraid of you," she snaps back, and it's not entirely true in that moment. They're alone, and he's much stronger than she is, and she is currently at his mercy.
But her words only bring the smile back to his lips, and his hold loosens slightly. "I know," he says, leaning closer, her fingers brushing against the thin, sweat-dampened shirt he wears. "You never have been."
"Don't fucking patronize me." It comes out as a snarl, and Eleanor jerks against his hold, her temper flaring. Who the fuck does he think he is, getting involved in her affairs and then lording it over her like he's done her some grand favor? And then to stand here, invading her space, and trying to tell her–
"I'm not."
His voice is low but firm, cutting into her thoughts, and when she looks up, that hint of amusement that never fails to get under her skin is gone. Something else lives in his stare, something intense and dangerously honest. There's a compliment in there somewhere, a man like him acknowledging a thing like that, and when he lets her wrists go, he doesn't back away. Instead, he slips his hand into her hair, and this time, she doesn't stop him.
And while he's careful where he puts his hand on her face, his kiss is not gentle. He's on her in an instant, unleashing his desires in a torrent of brutal kisses that are as demanding as the man himself.
Eleanor has never been kissed like this, as though the storm outside has come indoors to drown her where she stands, and the longer it goes on, her breaths growing shorter, her cheeks burning with the scrape of his stubble, the less she ever wants it to stop.
Her hands move of their own accord, clawing at him, her fingers curling around his neck to bring him closer still, and he obliges, lifting her easily to slam against the opposite wall. It's only then that he pauses, raking his gaze over her in a silent evaluation she can't quite place. And whatever it is he finds, frustration clouds his eyes, the fierce desire she saw just a moment ago shrouded.
"Fuck." His hands tighten on her thighs, but he doesn't kiss her again, and after another long moment, he eases her back to the ground.
"What are you–"
"You've never been fucked, have you?" he growls, his hands at his sides doing little to hide the tension in his chest and shoulders. He may have taken his hands off her, but he's still standing close enough that she can practically feel him vibrate with frustration.
"So?" She won't deny that he's right – Eleanor prefers brutal honesty and, when practical, applies the same standard to herself. But she won't apologize for it, won't give him the satisfaction of admitting there is an entire world she hasn't experienced for herself, and that she's chosen him as the one to show it to her.
"So I don't make a habit of fucking virgins," he snaps, turning away from her and crossing to lean back against the opposite wall, as though he can't stand to be near her in that moment.
"So? You want to fuck me."
When he doesn't answer her, she squares her shoulders and marches herself right up to him, and she kisses him as fiercely as he kissed her, pressing her body to his and drinking in everything she can.
They're both unsteady when she leans back, and he's looking at her as though she is a knot he has no idea how to untie. "The way I see it," she begins, struggling to contain her breathing and the effect he has on her, to not let him see it, "you can spend the night in my bed, or you can return through the storm to your tent, which may or may not be entirely soaked through. You certainly will be by the time you reach the beach."
And then she raises her brow at him in the same challenge he has issued her a thousand times before turning around and walking toward the back stairs. There's no sense in locking the place up with the amount of men sleeping on the floor and tables, and the liquor is already locked away in the storeroom.
He follows her, just as she thought he would.
But when they reach her bedroom, and the door is closed behind them with nothing more than a half-dozen candles to light the space, he doesn't immediately pull her back to him. Instead, his eyes run over the room, taking it in, and that sly smirk of his spreads across his lips once more.
"What?" she demands, hiding her own insecurity with a snarl.
He shakes his head slightly, but he reaches for her, his arms solid around her waist even as she glares up at him, his amusement not appreciated. "You surprise me, Eleanor. I am not a man easily surprised, but you, you manage it."
"What about this room surprises you?"
"That I'm in it." It's a strangely honest statement, and there's an undercurrent, a hint of the never good enough feeling she has worked so hard to bury in herself, and she wonders for a split second what the hell happened to him to make him so hard – and how it is that she softens him.
But whatever has held him back snaps, and there are no more coherent thoughts left in her head as he yanks his shirt over his head before going to work on her clothes. She is far too brazen to be embarrassed by her own nakedness, far too interested in examining his body to care as he backs toward the bed and settles himself between her thighs.
"I'm told the first time hurts," he says, brutally honest as he watches her. One callused finger dips into the hollow of her collarbones before sliding over the curve of her breast to circle her hardened nipple. He glances down to watch her body react, and she expects him to say something else, but instead he lowers his mouth to her breast.
And she realizes as his mouth works at her, his teeth dragging across her skin, that it is the only warning he's going to give her, the only opportunity to change her mind. She's not so uninformed to be unaware that the first time is usually not the most pleasant experience, but of all the men on the island she might find desirable enough to consider for the task, the last one she would have imagined being worried about that is Charles Vane.
But there is no fucking way she's backing down now.
It does hurt when it happens, and he's not exactly gentle, thrusting forward all at once with a muttered fuck as her nails dig into his biceps. He breathes deeply, holding himself within her, the burning, pinching pain making her hiss, but when their eyes meet and she sees something like concern swimming in his, she grits her teeth and snaps, "Keep going."
His lips part, a whisper that sounds like her name escaping, but whatever is going to happen between them, there is no room for sentiment, so she pushes her hips against his, driving him deeper and forcing his hand. Whatever he was about to say is lost, his groan vibrating through her as he drags himself out and slams back in.
It gets better, the burning subsiding, and pleasure returns. He must see it on her face, the moment when the pain passes and she begins to understand what all the fuss is about. He keeps it slow at first, pressure building at the base of her spine as he moves, but as she begins to move with more confidence, his rhythm falters and one curse after another peppers her skin. His breaths growing short, he reaches between them, using his thumb to drive her right over the edge before collapsing onto her.
They're both soaked in sweat, the room stuffy from being sealed up against the rain. His breaths are harsh on her skin, pants that match her own, and he's heavy, but there's something pleasant about his weight, the scrape of his beard against her throat right before he rolls off her.
They don't speak, the rain drumming on the roof so loudly it drowns out the sound of his breaths beside her. And maybe it's the newness of the experience, or maybe it's the shivers of pleasure running through her still, but she stares up at the ceiling and whispers thank you into the quiet.
"You're welcome," he drawls out, his hand falling to her thigh and squeezing, and she can just see the lascivious smirk she knows he's wearing despite her eyes on the ceiling.
"Not for that, nice as it was," she says with a breathless laugh. He's grown serious by the time she's worked up the nerve to look at him, and he hesitates for a moment, but then he leans down and kisses her. It's slow, and it's nothing like the kisses they've shared in the last hour. When he pulls back, there's a moment where his eyes are soft, his fingers dragging ever so lightly over her bruised jaw.
But it's gone as quick as it came, and he turns away from her, rising from the bed in all his naked glory. He must feel her stare on him as he stretches, lazy as a housecat as he rips open one of the french doors. "It's fucking hot in here."
She should tell him to close the door, that someone might see him, but she realizes she doesn't care. After his display in the tavern, even if she hadn't let him fuck her tonight, everyone on the beach would assume he had by morning. Hasn't this been her plan all along? To draw in the force of mayhem that is Charles Vane and tame him at her side, prove to the crews that she can control the most wild among them? He certainly looks wild at the moment, all lean, hard muscle, his hair snarled by her hands and his arms braced against the door frame.
Charles remains there for a long moment, the wet breeze misting over his skin as she comes up behind him, his body shielding hers from anyone who might be watching as her hands settle on his hips and begin to wander. He hums his approval, leaning back slightly, her breasts pressed to his back as she brushes a kiss between his shoulderblades.
But the moment her lips touch the spot, he tenses, his hands finding hers and stilling them. She wants to ask what the problem is, why he's suddenly so rigid, but he doesn't give her the chance, pushing her up against the wall and claiming another bruising kiss.
It isn't until later, when he's fallen asleep on his stomach and she lies awake, that she realizes what set him off – her lips pressed against an x formed by long, brutal scars across his back, the marks of a lashing so cruel his skin must have taken weeks to mend itself. She has the strangest urge to trace the terrible lines with her lips, but she doesn't wish to wake him, doesn't wish to be caught doing something so sentimental and foolish as caring about who gave him those scars and if that person is dead.
He's gone when she wakes up in the morning, the french doors closed against the sounds of the street and the bright sunshine streaming through the glass, a sure sign the storm has passed.
For now.