Notes: You don't need to have watched Black Sails to read this fic, although those characters will make appearances in supporting roles; it also won't strictly follow the story of the show. I'm rating this one M at the outset, for reasons which are probably obvious, and there will also be violence, foul language, and etc., so you have been duly warned. Captain Swan/Jewel Queen, Killian & Liam BROTP, Miranda/Flint.
-I-
A great wall of dark blue cloud lay across the horizon as far as the eye could see, lit underneath with spurs of rose and gold, as if it was a gateway that would roll aside to reveal the path to paradise. The sea was as still as glass and the air nearly so, as yet retaining the lingering coolness of the night that would quickly turn into a tropical inferno. It was June, they having shipped out in April as soon as the spring weather turned favorable for the six-week Atlantic crossing, and if nothing else, Killian Jones had had a formidable respect for the Caribbean sun, and the Caribbean weather in general, quite literally beaten into him. It was perfect and calm now; in an hour there might be a tempest fit to wreck them; an hour more, and doldrums. They had been helped by the westerly trade winds in making their crossing ahead of schedule, due to arrive on the fifteenth of June and it being presently the thirteenth, but not without a hair-raising adventure or two. Thus, as opportune as things looked now for a triumphal landing, he'd just as soon wager on a torrential downpour right when they were trying to get the Governor off the ship. And that, knowing the Governor, would get them bloody blamed for it. No sailor and no man could control the weather, but damn if Lord Robert Gold didn't think they should.
"Bosun reckons the depth at thirty fathoms," the helmsman said, startling him. "Fifteen miles offshore. Assuming a fair day and a bit of wind, we'll be at St. John's by noontime, sir."
"Thank you, Roberts." Killian turned away from the railing, nodding for the man to retire. He couldn't stop himself from conducting one last inspection from bowsprit to stern chasers, just to be sure every line, shroud, spar, block, and beam was punctiliously in place and scrubbed to within an inch of its life. He couldn't wait until this bloody voyage was over. Being elected to transport the new Governor of the Leeward Islands to the Royal Navy's Caribbean base and home port in Antigua might look like an honor, but Killian was well aware of why they had been selected for the task. The previous governor had been murdered by rebel colonists less than five years ago, the provincial administration was run by corrupt embezzlers out to line their own pockets and barely able to defend from the constant French attempts to steal the islands back, piracy was running rampant from New Providence Island to the north, they had been at declared or undeclared war with Spain for most of the century and the peace was fragile, the exiled Catholic Stuarts were trying a rebellion against the newly crowned Elector of Hanover back in England, and the whole future of newly-minted Great Britain's lucrative interests in the West Indies, if not possibly Great Britain itself, was at stake. Lord Robert Gold was exactly the sort of man, in Westminster's thinking, to get a very firm grip on the situation, and it started at home. The Admiralty had suspected for a while that the HMS Imperator was failing to enforce proper codes of conduct and respect for the law, and if Gold detected any hint of laxity, he would trip over himself to file a damning report. Which would result in one, or both, of them being removed from the ship in disgrace to face court-martial and prison. Or worse.
Killian's mouth tightened. Liam had warned the men in private, before they took Gold aboard, that they would have to do everything by the book on this voyage. The Jones brothers had sailed together for almost eight years now, captain and lieutenant, preferring to build the respect and trust of their crew through firm but fair treatment, no gratuitous floggings or deprivation of rations or other arbitrary punishments, and in general regarding them as men, free men, and not impressed slaves to whom death was the only sure exit from His Protestant Majesty's Royal Navy. This, however, sniffed very nearly to heresy among certain segments of the Admiralty Board, and combined with the trouble the brothers had gotten into last year by refusing to defend slave ships in the Middle Passage, meant anything that looked like basic human decency or morale among the troops would be regarded very narrowly indeed. Gold was doubtless praying for a man to steal an extra biscuit, or try to shirk his watch, or any other minute infraction, that would then require a flogging to be administered. Could tell if the officers were comfortable doing it, what effect it had on the watching men, even if the culprit had old scars on his back from a previous offense. And if he didn't see exactly what he wanted, would include that in his report as well.
Bloody hell. Killian checked that the capstan was properly braced and locked, which it was, just as it had been the previous half-dozen times he looked. Thus far they had managed to get away with it, as the crew knew that any minor slipup would have to be punished with disproportionate harshness, and as much as a man might claim that he understood the need on an intellectual level, that could still change when you felt the cat o' nine tails' burning kiss on your back. Killian winced just at the memory, and he had never even taken as many floggings as he should have. Not when Liam kept finding ways to lie that it had been his fault.
He glanced back at the horizon. The clouds were breaking up, a spill of fresh daylight tumbling down to paint a rich golden road on the sea, beckoning them to El Dorado. Morning bell would be sounding soon, the crew up for muster, instructed to put on their least filthy shirt and cravat so Gold would not have to be brought ashore by a gang of apparent vagabonds. Six weeks at sea did not leave a man much fresh cloth, which meant more work to scrub them with lye and seawater, which meant another test to see how well they passed. But at least it was almost done. Get the bastard to St. John's, pack him off to his mansion, and then they could rest, refit, perhaps enjoy a fortnight on the island before they were given their new orders. They'd be here for the foreseeable future, assigned as part of the West Indies fleet to combat the pirate menace, and if they could just catch one of the big fish rumored to thieve these waters – Charles Vane, James Flint, Benjamin Hornigold – all would be forgiven. Floggings or no floggings.
Having concluded his inspection of the ship and decided there was nothing more to be done to satisfy even him, Killian turned away, crossed the deck, and let himself into the stern cabin, with a quick rap to announce his entrance. "Good morning, Captain," he said. "All in order, sir."
"At ease, Lieutenant." Liam Jones glanced up from the pile of charts he was consulting, cravat undone, sleeves rolled up, and face unshaven, though the bowl and cutthroat razor balanced precariously atop the books suggested he had been attempting to proceed in that direction before getting distracted. The stress of the voyage was apparent on him too, as his eyes were framed in dark circles and his normally robust, broad-shouldered frame looked gaunt, coat hanging more loosely than usual. Killian knew that Liam had barely slept a wink for all of these six weeks ensuring the ship ran perfectly, and worrying about what he would have to do if it didn't. Gold kept popping up at odd hours, when any other well-bred gentleman should have been abed, as if trying to catch them in a mistake or plotting to throw their lot in with the Jacobites. As if they would be remotely that stupid. Nobody much liked George of Hanover, who barely spoke a word of English, had proved in no hurry to uproot to London, and in general seemed to view the exalted and momentous task of ruling Great Britain with all the enthusiasm of a man handed a dead snail, but as the alternative was Popish tyranny, all loyal Englishmen had fallen into line regardless. And since Liam and Killian had been born in Ireland and baptized Catholic, they lived in fear of some disgruntled enemy digging up the old parish registers and using it as proof of their duplicity. Gold had already been asking enough seemingly casual questions about their origins to make them think it had crossed his mind to go looking.
Seeing that they were alone, Killian turned to his brother, smiling comfortingly. "It's almost over, Li. Weather looks fine and fair, Roberts says we should make landfall by midday. Then we can get Gold off the ship and breathe out for once, aye?"
Liam shot a shifty look at the door, as if expecting the governor to be lurking on the other side with his ear pressed to it; even that fairly innocuous sentence was the most freely they had dared to speak since embarking. Then he ran his hands through his disheveled curls and groaned. "I'd best get freshened up in that case. No use having the crew scrubbed and clean if their captain looks a ragamuffin. Hand me the strop."
Killian took the leather band off its nail and tossed it to his brother, as Liam straightened the razor, made his way over to the lime-glass mirror, and spread the suds onto his face, squinting in concentration as he barbered himself back into respectability. Then he splashed a bit of water onto his cheeks and wiped them clean, plucking a whalebone comb out of the top drawer and doing battle with his salt-whipped hair, drawing it back into a tidy queue and doing up the ribbon. "Well," he said, taking a deep breath. "How do I look?"
"They might not mistake you for the gunner's mate," Killian teased, retrieving the captain's coat, heavy dark blue wool lined with white and trimmed in gold, and holding it out for Liam to shrug on. He fished a fresh cravat from the trunk and handed it over as well, which Liam did up, tugged nervously straight, and finally seemed to pronounce respectable. He took his hat from the peg and put it on, doing up the top button of his white vest, just as the morning bell sounded.
With one last glance to ensure that his brother's own cravat was not crooked, the captain pushed through the door and into the sunlight, Killian on his heels, as the crew appeared from below, still yawning and scratching. They did at least look as if some effort had been made with soap and water, their grubby neckerchiefs damp to show they had tried to wash them. They stood at attention, trying not to fidget, as the main cabin's door opened and Lord Robert Gold made his entrance, immaculate as always in watered silk waistcoat and stylishly cut buckled breeches, overcoat of fine brocade and jabot and sleeves trimmed with French lace. He leaned on his ivory-handled walking stick, eyeing them up and down as if in fastidious final hope of finding something to complain about, and then at last, came to a halt before Liam. "Captain Jones. I present my felicitations to you and your men upon the conduction of a capitally successful voyage. When we come ashore in St. John's and I take up my post, I'll be sure to pass along my recommendation to Whitehall that the Imperator and her captain are fully fit for future duties, and to be entrusted with all the business of the British Crown."
Liam barely stopped himself from a most undignified reaction, as to say the least this had not been what they were expecting, and Killian felt him tense in anticipation of the stick swiftly following the carrot. It had not escaped either of them that "all the business of the British Crown" certainly included slavery, a massive part of the Caribbean economy considering the vast sugar plantations of Barbados, Jamaica, and Antigua, and that it would be just like Gold to reassign them to slaver-protection duty in the guise of a reward, and also to see if this time they would agree to do it. "My lord," he said at last, warily. "It has been a great honor to bring you to the Leeward Islands. As loyal subjects of King and Country, we of course stand prepared to receive any future orders or postings the Admiralty desires."
"Indeed." Gold smiled faintly. "Your entire crew has proven themselves most capable in the entirety of their endeavors. Even when I came down with that vile case of the grippe a fortnight in, I could not have been in better hands. Mr. Whale, if you please?"
He beckoned for the ship's surgeon, and Killian grabbed Liam's wrist. If there was one man they did not want conversing on a one-to-one basis with the governor, it was Whale. His social status and medical training entitled him to his officer rank, and when he was sober he was in fact a fine physician and valued member of the crew, but therein lay the difficulty. Add to that an overall irreverence and barbed tongue more suitable for one of the muckrakers who drew unflattering cartoons of politicians for the evening broadsheets, as well as a belief that they should be proud of thumbing their noses at the Navy's rules, and you arrived at the reason Killian had insisted that all of Gold's direct care be handled by the far more mild-mannered surgeon's mate, Mr. Hopper. He had already been having enough nightmares over the prospect of the Governor dying in their charge, to the point where his most mistrustful notions couldn't dismiss the fear that Gold had purposefully gone out in the rain and cold to make himself ill. He told himself that this was lunacy, that the man would never put his own health at risk just in search of political points, but he hadn't been able to shake it entirely. And –
"My lord." Whale stepped forward, with an inclination of his head that was perfunctory at best. "I am glad to have been of service. Surely, however, the credit rightfully belongs to my mate."
Hopper shifted and smiled nervously, clearly hoping not to be called upon. Killian's grip on Liam's wrist tightened, until his brother gave him an accusing look and he let go, pretending to pick a fleck of lint from his cuff. Still, though. This was bad. He thought they had successfully disguised any hint of Whale's incendiary reputation from their passenger, and to see Gold so ruthlessly diving for that weak spot made him realize that they might just have a sneak among the crew, someone cozened into spilling secrets in exchange for money, of which Gold (as his name might suggest) had plenty. He wanted to think that nobody would do that, that they were loyal enough to see through Gold's games and agendas, but then, no seaman was a saint. The men had families back home. Mouths to feed. Months and months away, with no certain return. If Gold had persuaded them that he could see a little extra sent their way, promised that it was only for the welfare of the ship and the crew if he knew what was going on, which man might make things difficult for him. . .
"Regardless," the governor said, "you must have devised the program of my care, Mr. Whale. And on a Royal Navy ship of the line, surely it is proper to expect that the surgeon has done so. Do you believe that the Imperator conforms to such standards, Mr. Whale?"
"Yes, my lord."
"What a relief. So if any other dignitary had fallen ill, they also would have been treated by the surgeon's mate, in lieu of yourself. Is that correct?"
A faint flush climbed Whale's neck. There was slightly less courtesy in his tone when he repeated, "Yes, my lord."
"Well then, the Imperator is outstandingly gifted indeed, to have two fully qualified surgeons of the same caliber at her disposal. At a time when the Navy is short a good surgeon for every vessel, which is to say always, it seems rather selfish to waste this bounty in one place. But neither of you would have any reason to request a transfer, would you? Loyal to your crew and captain? Even if you – "
"Does his lordship have a point to make?" Whale interrupted. "He recovered, didn't he?"
"Oh, I did. Marvelously." Gold's eyes glittered. "You will understand the nature of my enquiry as purely academic and impartial, and merely to be certain that protocol has been adhered to. That is the reason for your response, is it not? That this is exactly what would have been done in any similar circumstances? And not, say, that person or person(s) of interest might have wished to keep you from my presence, for fear of. . . incidents?"
"I've got no notion what you're talking about, my lord."
"Pity." The governor sighed. "Well, call it a proprietary concern for my investment, so that I would not be taken short by any embarrassing revelations or scandals after I had already written to London and given the Imperator my full and unconditional blessing. If one such does emerge, you all know where the governor's residence in St. John's is located. Which I would like to see sometime this year, in fact, so shall we get underway?"
Liam, still looking like a man who had crawled into a cave, found it occupied by something large and hairy, and backed out very slowly to avoid waking it, nodded crisply and spun on his heel, shouting orders. The crew hopped to with similarly more-than-usual alacrity; the breeze was freshening as the sun climbed higher, and the sheets caught it with groans and creaks, singing through the lines. There was, in Killian's mind, nothing so beautiful as the moment when stillness became motion, when the sleeping leviathan woke and all its parts and pieces pulled together, when the capstan thumped and rattled as the anchor raised, and they went skimming across the great face of the deep like a child setting a twig boat on the rushing breast of the river. He grinned despite himself, breathing good lungfuls of fresh salt air, thinking that if it wasn't for the miserable sodding heat and constant threat of thirst, hunger, pirates, corrupt bureaucrats, storms, snakes, slaves, slave-masters, disease, death, and Robert bloody Gold, he'd almost want to stay here. An endless horizon to explore beneath a brilliant blue sky, none of the rain and grime and grue of London, palm trees and white sand, adventure and mystery and freedom with Liam at his side, all he had ever truly asked from life and finally, miraculously been given. He was not nearly naïve enough to think that Gold would stop digging, or that his dropping of the subject now meant they had been saved, but letters took a long time to get between Antigua and England. If he wrote his glowing endorsement of them now, no matter how many strings it was certain to come attached with, that gave them plenty of time to score their coup de grace, to take down one of the biggest thorns in the Navy's side, before he had any chance to change his mind. Even he could not shoot them to bits if there was nothing to load his cannon with.
Killian gazed at the distant blue line of land ahead, growing and rising out of the heretofore endless, empty swells of the sea. This was it. Their fortune lay ahead in the Caribbean, and nothing he would lament being rid of behind them. Even with all the trouble and discomfort they had been put to, he was quite sure that he wouldn't change a thing.
Three and sundry hours later, Killian was of the decided opinion that coming to the Caribbean was the worst decision not only that he had ever made, but that Britain had made in general, and considering its track record, there were a great deal to choose from. They had managed to arrive in St. John's, moor up, and even get Gold down the gangplank without outstanding calamity, met by a full detachment of soldiers from Fort Berkeley, which sat just to the south overlooking the deep-water harbor and Navy dockyard; the new Fort James, intended to protect the capital, was still mostly scaffolding and stone blocks. Doubtless having a new Governor in residence would put the fear of God into them to get it done faster, as Gold was liable to skulk around the building site and criticize the workmanship in between his grueling schedule of getting headfirst up everyone's arses. They marched ashore with drums and fifes and flapping colors; the new flag had been nicknamed the "Union Jack" after the official political merger with Scotland eight years ago. The locals had all turned out to gawk, meaning that the carriage ride through the narrow, twisting streets took an age and a half, and when they finally arrived at the reception in the governor's mansion, they were forced to suffer an introduction to the chief cause of Killian's current indigestion: Captain James Nolan of the British Army, commander of the Fort Berkeley garrison, immaculate in powdered wig, gilded tricorne, dress saber, and smart red coat, who took one look at the windblown, salt-stained, ruddy-faced Jones brothers in their worn Naval blues and said, "Oh, I have heard so very much about you two," in a tone which strongly suggested that, in defiance of all man's natural and proper urges for self-preservation, he secretly desired to be punched very hard and directly in the nose. Possibly repeatedly.
Liam shot a warning look at Killian, whose fists had clenched. A slave girl came up to them with a tray of drinks, and he nodded her off. Then turning back to their interrogator, he said politely, "Captain Liam Jones of the HMS Imperator at your service, my lord. My brother and second-in-command, Lieutenant Killian Jones. We look forward to a most fruitful partnership serving the interests of the Crown together."
"Charmed." Captain Nolan took a glass. "I do hope you're up for the task. Good help is always in such short supply, and as you have potentially gathered, we are facing an entire armada of crises at once. The Caribbean is no place for weaklings or men of excessive. . . shall we say. . . sentiment." His eyes drifted in the direction of the departed slave girl. "You can imagine that I had some reservations about hearing that I had been assigned such unpredictable associates. Men who seem to care more for the tender sensibilities of Negro slaves than for the interests of their own king and country. Unless there's another explanation for that certain incident that you're here to dazzle me with?"
Liam hesitated, clearly cognizant of the danger. "No, my lord," he said at last. "I imagine what you have heard is fairly close to the truth. It was a moment of. . . personal conviction."
"Good lord, you're not Quakers, are you?" Captain Nolan rolled his eyes at the rococo ceiling. "We all know the system is distasteful, but it is a necessary evil for a greater gain. If you start picking and choosing which laws of the British Crown apply to you, Captain Jones, you'll find it is a very dangerous and narrow line to walk. We have enough trouble with the renegades of New Providence Island, even this far south of their usual haunts. Trust me, you don't want to share their fate. The laws on piracy are, I am afraid, quite unyielding."
"I am no pirate." Liam's tone remained polite, but hard as steel. "No traitor either, no matter what you may think of me. But my brother and I passed our youth and part of our young adulthood in slavery ourselves, and as such, we do not wish to enforce the same depravity on fellow men, if it can be at all avoided."
"You have a most peculiar view of the situation, gentlemen." Captain Nolan sipped his drink, which Killian tried not to eye with longing. "Not least in considering Negroes equal to the white man, and furthermore, thinking that you solve the problem by abstaining from it. I desire very greatly not to be shot myself, you see, hence why I am in the habit of shooting the other bastard first. And from the miserable estate of suffering and slavery to a captain in command of a third-rate in the Royal Navy, bringing the new Governor to the islands – that is quite a climb, wouldn't you say? However was such a remarkable leap achieved?"
Liam hesitated again. "Through wanting the best life possible for myself and my brother," he said after a moment, quite firmly. "Which it has given us, and so why we serve. Once more, I vouchsafe that you have absolutely no reason or need to question our loyalty."
"Very well." Captain Nolan smiled. "I'll take your word for it. After all, if an Englishman cannot trust the oath of a fellow Englishman, whatever is this world coming to?"
Liam nodded, and the two captains clasped each other's hands formally. As they moved off through the airy drawing room, doors opened to the veranda on all sides to let cooling sea-breeze in, Killian muttered, "That one is going to be a problem, brother."
"I noticed." Liam's mouth was grim. "Do you suppose we've pressed the flesh sufficiently to defray any suspicion, and that Gold won't write to the Admiralty at once if we leave early? I'd like to get out of this snakepit before they suck us entirely dry."
"I'd think so," Killian said. "But you're the one in charge here, Captain."
"Bugger it," Liam decided, after a quick look around. "We've done our duty and gotten him here safe, and as they're likely to give us only a week in port, if that, before sending us out again, we need to get refitted as soon as possible. Let's find the Governor and make our excuses."
While Killian was not eager for a second confrontation with Gold in the wake of their earlier one, and their recent escape from Captain Nolan, he was at least sensible enough to realize that they could not sneak out the back, with no word exchanged, without starting the very kind of trouble they had gone to such length and labor to avoid. So he waited while Liam tracked down Gold and presumably filled his ear with taradiddle about how they would love to stay and continue celebrating his safe arrival, but they really did have so very much to do and they could not put Britain's interests in jeopardy with half-cocked preparations. At any rate, it must have worked, because Liam re-emerged from the crowd, wedged on his hat, and said, "Let's go."
Killian trailed after him to the front door, where they were bowed out by the slaves and both of them grimaced, heading down the cobbled walk under the swaying palm trees. Menacing grey towers were starting to gather over the sun, promising one of those fierce Caribbean squalls, and as his coat and shirt were sodden to his skin with sweat, running with an unpleasant tickle down his back, Killian pulled his cravat loose with a sigh of relief and glanced at his brother. "Think we have time to take a dip somewhere before that storm hits?"
Liam studied the clouds with a practiced eye. "Wouldn't say so. It'll be on us in half an hour or less. But they don't last long, so perhaps after. In the meantime, let's find Hawkins and see how much exactly it'll cost us to get this bloody tub resupplied."
Killian quickened his pace as they descended out of the gated gubernatorial precincts and into the lively commerce of the port proper. It smelled as rich and earthy and ripe as any other provincial outpost, mud splashing on their boots and merchants beckoning from cramped stalls, painted whores leaning out windows and longshoremen rolling barrels, household servants with baskets on their arms doing their shopping and huge fish hung up under fading calico awnings, as their sellers bartered vigorously with customers and the clink and clatter of pennies and shillings and crowns and groats and guineas provided a sort of dull musical background. Sweating, ink-spattered clerks fiddled with abacuses and quills to work out tallage, redcoats with muskets kept watch over the public square and a few evidently notorious local drunks, and Killian felt some of his lingering ill temper leavening. "So, Li, could you see us staying here? After our posting is done, I mean? It's not as if there's so bloody much back in England."
Liam gave him an odd look. "That decision won't be up to us. The Admiralty will reassign us wherever we're needed."
"Oh. Aye, of course." Killian had almost forgotten about that. This place did that to you, gave you the intoxicating illusion of boundless liberty, far away from the usual rules and regulations. Not, of course, that he could go forgetting it now. Captain Nolan had already made it plain that even in the stupendously unlikely event that Gold forgot to be a massive pain in the hindquarters, he would more than admirably pick up the slack, and some sort of distasteful event was likely about to come their way as a test. But still. He could taste it, that fever in the blood that a man must be stricken with. Freedom. Not just a restricted and restrained version of it, constantly at peril of the Admiralty's displeasure, but more. True. Real.
Killian shook his head and followed Liam back to the docks and aboard ship, where they tracked down the purser, Mr. Hawkins, and went over the lists of supply. As usual, fresh water and grog were the top requirements, possibly not in that order; seamen would suffer manfully without water if need be, but threaten the grog stores and mutiny was on the table. They also needed tar, turpentine, and caulk; canvas, rope, wax, thread, and hemp; a crate of citrus to prevent scurvy; the usual tonnages of foodstuffs, salt, and flour; medicines and bandages; fresh candles and oil; ink and paper to start a new captain's log; powder, shot, ramrods, flints and fuses to keep the Imperator's sixty guns fully supplied in dangerous waters; nails, timber, and new saw-blade for ship's carpenter Mr. Booth; a new cleaver, ladle, and butcher knife for ship's cook Mr. Lucas; and ten bales of blue serge and white muslin to repair torn, soiled, and ruined uniforms. All of this was not going to come cheap, as small, outlying islands like Antigua had to make money off every ship they served, and Liam's brows furrowed as he ran a finger down the page. "Bloody hell, they already made us spend a king's ransom on making sure Gold had his comforts and luxuries for the crossing. How the devil are we supposed to afford all this?"
"I suppose asking Gold to pay back what we had to use on him isn't an option?" Killian suggested. The rainstorm was in full roar above them, slamming on the deck as loudly as hailstones, and he had to raise his voice. "Otherwise, the local merchants have to have a bill of credit with the fort. We could put it on Captain Nolan's account, there's an idea."
Liam gave him a look, at which he was rather miffed; he had felt it an excellent short-term solution. If worse came to worse, they were not at critical level, and could probably make it another month or two before a refit became imperative, but he knew Liam never liked to run that risk. As well, if it was expensive to resupply now at their current needs, buying more would perforce be even more expensive, and even if they applied to London for an expansion of their operating budget, that would naturally take more time than their present supplies would last them. Liam would figure something out, though. He always did.
"Well," Liam said, closing the account book with a thud. "Thank you, Hawkins. I'll work on this. There must be some of it we can do without, I'll have to see what we can cut. I'll inform the crew they're on shore leave for the time being. You're in command until I return."
"Aye, Captain." Hawkins saluted him and moved to put the book away, as Liam and Killian mounted the stairs to the deck and emerged just as the worst of the downpour was passing. The sky was a fresh, clean-washed blue, and there was a delicious wet coolness that took the edge off the worst of the heat. Killian breathed deep, then went to let the men know they were free to depart for the evening. Most of them would make a mad scramble to the tavern and brothel, as sailors getting off a six-week voyage tended to do, and he prayed that Gold didn't have any spies (or at least too many) among the public, poised to deliver tales of debauchery and drunkenness to the governor's waiting ear. If he got on their case about that, which every other ship did without censure, he'd really have to stab the bastard on a dark night and make it look like an accident.
Duties completed, he and Liam made their own exit. Midsize ships of the line such as the Imperator commonly sailed with two or even three lieutenants under the captain, but they had eschewed this, choosing instead to take on the extra work and strain to stay with only each other. Another lieutenant would be a stranger, have his own notions about how the ship should be run, and there was no guarantee that he would support their riskier policy positions (and certainly not that he would not then tell the Admiralty about them). This was, Killian knew, another point of suspicion about them, that they could be counted on to take each other's side first and foremost and that they were almost always of one mind in everything, and that forcing them to take on a second lieutenant might break up some of their too-cozy synergy. But this had progressed no further than muttering, just like everything else, and he did not intend to let anyone come between him and Liam. Captain and Lieutenant Jones did not need a third wheel.
The afternoon was late and the sun was long and low as they made their way to the postern gate of the city wall. Outside, a narrow track led down to a sheltered inlet, lush with greenery and surrounded by tall rocks, and the light gleamed on a crystal-clear pool beneath a small waterfall. They glanced at each other, as usual had the same idea, and in an instant, the staid, proper officers of the Royal Navy turned into shrieking banshees as they ripped off their clothes, raced to the edge, and cannonballed in, splashing and bellowing. Liam dunked Killian thoroughly, not letting him up until he was spitting and red in the face, and they chased each other around the pool with fistfuls of slimy weed, ducking behind the rocks and springing out to launch deadly ambushes. It was fresh water, not salt, and Killian lapped down several sweet sips, loosening the ribbon from his hair and letting some of the accumulated filth of two months soak off him. From here, they had a stunning vantage of the red-gold sunset, the wind blowing away from them so the stink and sound of the port was barely noticeable, and he heaved a sigh of utter contentment. "This place is almost perfect, Liam."
"Right now, aye," Liam said, wringing out his own hair. "Three hours ago you hated it."
"Three hours ago I hated Captain Nolan. Still do, actually." Killian plucked a floating leaf from the water and curled it into a miniature boat. After six weeks of having to watch his every word, his every thought, the ability to speak freely was intoxicating. "I can see why men take notions in this place. About turning pirate, that is."
Liam gave him an even stranger look, and he hastily backtracked. "No, that's not what I meant, not that we should. You know I'd never leave you or the Navy. Just that I. . . I see."
Liam flashed a wry smile. "Aye, who would have guessed that giving independent, quarrelsome, adventurous men a wide-open space full of sea and sky and minimal authority would then induce some to decide to live by their own rules? Especially when money and drink and women are involved? It does not surprise me that there are pirates in the Caribbean, only that there are not even more. But that's what weak men do when faced by temptation, Killian. They break. And there is too much at stake here. We must not be weak men."
"You're right, of course." Killian hastily quashed the pang of shame he felt at Liam's words, his fear that even by entertaining the idea, he had proven his own unworthiness. "We won't speak any more of it, I promise. Now come on, it'll be dark soon, and unless you're that eager to spend another night on the ship, we should find lodgings."
"Aye," Liam agreed, climbing out of the pool as they shook themselves dry, pulled back on their rumpled uniforms, and trudged back up the hill toward the gate, which would be shut and locked at evenfall. Inside, the market was starting to close down and the crowds in the streets had thinned as folk drifted toward hearth and home, and they strode through the winding lanes and alleys in search of a respectable supper club. It was always difficult for the men to relax at a tavern if their commanding officers were watching from across the way the entire time, and since they had eaten all the piss-poor street slop they could stomach and then some, neither of them had a philosophical objection to taking the privileges their rank entitled them to. It had been a while before Killian could trust that their next meal was guaranteed, and that he didn't have to hoard food in case it wasn't. But the memories of the awful, aching starvation that gnawed his belly out, of never having enough as a growing boy, were not easily shaken. Liam always gave up part of his own rations for him, and Killian was still unable to rid himself of the guilt for pretending that he didn't know. He was so hungry that he would just take them and eat them. Liam must have felt the deprivation even worse than he did, but he never said a word.
In a few more minutes, they found a handsome red-brick establishment atop the hill, gazing imperiously down on the port below, that was clearly intended for the society and patronage of Army and Navy officers, plantation owners, wealthy merchants, and the other upper echelons of British gentry who might find themselves in need of an evening away from the rabble. They went inside and were seated by the solicitous proprietor, and when he had brought them two glasses of what he promised was an excellent local vintage, Killian took one and raised it to his brother. "Here's to us, Liam. Long live the brothers Jones."
"Hear, hear." Liam took the other and chimed it against Killian's, and they drank. As long as it wasn't rum, and as long as he didn't have more than the one glass, Killian supposed he should be all right. He'd had his first sip at age thirteen, as it was the easiest and most readily available remedy for an angry, heartbroken, headstrong boy who had been a slave since he was eight, and it quickly proved very easy to dive deep. He had nearly ruined everything for them by his drinking, and once they made it into the Navy thanks to Liam's heroism, swore he would never come close to it again. He still craved it, still couldn't be around the sailors when they were putting it down as if the world might end on the spot with them less than completely shite-faced, but he had gotten better about controlling it. Now that he didn't constantly need it to numb the pain, now that he had something to live for and to do well, there wasn't that black hole for it to fill. He reminded himself of what Liam had said earlier, about how weak men broke when faced with temptation, and as he did ten times a day, vowed that he was not going to be the one to ruin this for them. They seemed to have a depressingly bloody large number of volunteers for that job, anyway.
"So," Killian said, once their warm, savory-smelling supper had arrived and they started to tuck in. "How are we going to pay for the refit? I suppose if worse comes to worse, you could always sell me back into slavery." He laughed, without humor.
Liam looked scandalized. "What? Christ, who do you think I am? Papa?"
"Only a jest," Killian said hastily. He sometimes needed to float such a thing aloud, to hear what Liam would say to the possibility of abandoning him, if only to reassure the small, frightened voice in his head that he never would. That was what happened when the one man who was supposed to love and take care of you no matter what – your father – was the one who had sold you and your brother into slavery in exchange for a rowboat. "I know you'd never do that, Li."
"Good," Liam said, feathers clearly ruffled. "As for the refit, I'm still not sure. I'll have to pare it down to essentials and speak to the commodore at Fort Berkeley, see if there's an organized scheme to supply the other ships here, and who I have to bribe to get in on it. There have to be options, they wouldn't leave us completely hanging. We would have had plenty of money to purchase everything we needed if it wasn't for Gold and his delicacies."
Killian shot a reflexive look over his shoulder, but everyone appeared safely absorbed in their meals and conversations. "Well, I hope his roast pheasant with saffron was bloody worth it. Perish the thought that the Admiralty might have planned for that and granted us a larger stipend, but I suppose that's quite a lot of water under the bridge now. Or perhaps – "
"Excuse me, gentlemen," a voice said. A woman's voice, smooth and husky, darkly promising. "You seem new to the island and in need of assistance. Perhaps I could offer it?"
Killian and Liam glanced up in surprise and some indignation, opening their mouths, and then shut them at the same time with an audible click. The newcomer was dressed in a terrifically flattering gown of burgundy silk and onyx lace, flounced and ruffled and exposing a considerable amount of creamy white – Killian thought the technical term was décolletage – with a cameo on a ribbon choker around her neck and her black hair styled in an elaborate, upswept braided crown, scarlet-painted lips drawn back to expose white teeth in a coy smile. She was indeed lovely, breathtakingly so in fact, but something about her instantly struck him as hard and dangerous beneath the paint and polish. Yet she was a lady, and good form was good form. He rose to his feet as Liam did the same, and took her offered hand to kiss. "Lieutenant Killian Jones, ma'am, at your service. And my brother, Captain Liam Jones, the same."
"Mistress Regina Mills, at yours." She offered an abbreviated dip of a curtsey, and with the niceties observed and thus no threat of the Tower of London crumbling abruptly to dust across the Atlantic, she took the extra chair at their table as if she was an invited guest arriving late. The Jones brothers exchanged looks, could think of no polite way to dissuade her, and getting the lay of the land from a well-informed and clearly well-connected civilian couldn't hurt. They cautiously resumed their seats as well, as she said, "You must be off the Imperator, we had heard she wasn't supposed to arrive for two more days. Early landing?"
"Yes, ma'am," Liam said. "The Governor is officially in residence, all most proper."
"Oh yes. Robert Gold." Regina flashed an odd little smile. "We'll have to see what he makes of his new posting – and you of yours. So many responsibilities and distractions, it'll be all you can do to keep your head. I may be poised to assist on some of those fronts. You'll be here for the next – what, year? That's a long time for a man to be lonely."
Liam, who had just taken another sip of wine, spluttered, had to put it down quickly, and pounded himself on the chest. "I beg your pardon, mistress, are you soliciting us for – "
Regina's smirk remained. "What? Nobody told you who I am?"
"Should they have?"
"Not necessarily, but sailors do talk. Well then, for all intents and purposes, you can think of me as the queen of this two-bit little island. I own the establishment a few doors down from this one, and my girls are all beautiful, educated, clean, play the harpsichord or mandolin, and know how to dress and converse and comport themselves in high society. Not a filthy, halfwit slattern among them. Indeed, we tend to refer to the place as Whitehall, due to the number of Navy officers who have been in it. They sail into the harbor, step off their ship, and arrive at my place of business to select a mistress, it's quite a well-oiled system. We get the tiresome few loyal to their absent wives off in God knows where, but fortunately for business, those ones are very far between. So, are you interested in scheduling a consultation?"
Liam's face was turning steadily more purple – whether at the realization that they were being baldly propositioned by a high-class madam, the fact that she assumed they could not wait to rush along and do the same as their degenerate compatriots, or at the faint hint of sweet scent that must make a man want to bend close and take a deep whiff, it was hard to say. Killian himself had no desire to do such a thing, mostly due to the fact that he fully expected this woman to clap shut like one of those queer carnivorous flowers on any poor fool that tried, but he could see that Liam, for all his horror and dismay, was not completely impervious to her charm. "Actually," he said, as politely as he could. "You seem to have mistaken the nature of our conundrum, ma'am. We were not reckoning how we could afford an evening of no doubt boundlessly pleasurable company, but how we could afford to refit our ship and carry out our duties. Properly."
Regina's smile slipped a notch, before she managed to hitch it flawlessly back into place. "Married men? I must say, you don't have the look. As for that, I doubt there's a soul on this entire island who knows more of its plots, politics, inner workings, customs, strengths, weaknesses, and secrets than I do. Both here and the Leewards generally. You would do very well to cultivate my friendship. I could greatly aid and abet your tenure here, or I could. . . not."
This threat was delivered so elegantly and offhandedly that it took both the Jones brothers a moment to catch it. Then Liam glared at her, clearly unable to countenance the idea that their success or failure, and thus the prospects for their future career, could hang upon them having to get to know (almost undoubtedly in the biblical sense) one expensive courtesan and her impromptu intelligence network. Killian had no doubt that it was as good as she said, if every bloody officer on this island passed through her house; she had probably trained all of her girls to get them to sing like nightingales. I knew this one was dangerous. And as it seemed they had done nothing but make enemies since setting foot on Antigua, he wondered if they could afford to instantly alienate her as well. Bloody hell. For all its beauty and allure and seeming endless freedom, this place might be even more of a den of vipers than London.
"Well?" Regina said sleekly, clearly confident of her bargaining high ground. "If you're not going to patronize my establishment in person – and I must say, you have no idea what you'd be missing – there are other ways to show your appreciation. And you being clever men, can doubtless think of them. What a pity that I'd have to leave without telling you anything I know, but business is business." She gathered her skirts and started to rise.
"Wait." Liam put his hand on the table, and took it away to reveal a heavy silver coin, a newly minted crown stamped with George's autocratic German profile, glittering in the candlelight. "Is this the sort of appreciation you had in mind, madam?"
"It's a start." Regina eyed it greedily, picked it up to judge its weight in her palm, and must have found it satisfactory, as it vanished in a twinkling and she sat back down. "For the refit, you'll want to speak to Mr. Locksley, the steward and castellan at Fort Berkeley, and I daresay you won't even have to bribe him anything. He'll sort out how to get you supplied – tell him I sent you and he'll likely give you a discount." She smiled that cat-in-cream smile again. "Once that's done, I can imagine you did not come to the Caribbean merely to laze around. As well, I'm wagering, to impress Lord Robert Gold and entice him to keep his overlarge nose out of your business. Am I warm?"
"Possibly," Liam said shortly. "Go on."
Regina shrugged demurely. "As you know, the whole of the region is currently plagued by pirates of every ability, ambition, and sheer diabolical brazenry, to the point one must wonder if there are any demons left in Hell, or if it has been emptied and all of them are here. I doubt a ship could even enter the waters north of Hispaniola without being immediately stripped of all its goods and riches, and the carrion beetles cannot all pick the same carcass clean, so they have had to range further afield for prizes. None of them have been so bold as to openly attack the Navy base here, but one came as far south as Anguilla and seems inclined to stay, if the reports from your fellow officers are anything to go by. And in a place like this, where bribery and nepotism and corruption make it nearly impossible to get anything done in a timely fashion, well. . ." She shrugged. "Perhaps you two are just the fresh blood the island needs. A stunning success right off the bat, the capture of a known pirate threat. . . what do you say?"
"We're listening." Liam did his best to sound impassive, but Killian saw the flicker of hunger that crossed his face, kin to the one he himself felt. A voice in the back of his head warned him that nothing came easily in a place like this, and certainly not without a price, but if the rest of the Navy was too bogged down in infighting and enjoying the delights of Regina's establishment and whatever else, perhaps an example must be set. "Do you know anything about this vessel?"
Regina eyed him meaningfully. He sighed, dug in his pocket, and produced another crown.
"Obliged, Captain." She gave Liam a long, equally meaningful look in a different fashion, as if undressing him with her eyes. "You know, there really are far more satisfying ways of settling this account, and one which wouldn't cost you money you don't have to spare."
"I'll be the judge of that. What's this ship?"
"A brigantine," Regina said. "Faster than a sloop, and very likely faster than you, as well as being considerably more familiar with the region. Carries sixteen or eighteen guns, on the high end for a pirate vessel, and has caused considerable damage to larger ships with them."
"The Imperator carries sixty," Killian interjected. "I doubt firepower will be a problem."
"Oh, it's not how large the gun is, Lieutenant. It's whether a man knows how to use it." She let her fingers trail across the back of his hand, but he jerked it sharply away, and their eyes locked, cold and challenging despite the air of cordiality. Then she smiled again and went on, "In any event, suit yourself, but your Navy brethren have consistently underestimated the pirates and paid dearly for it, so I wouldn't advise rushing headlong into repeating their mistake. The ship is called Blackbird. The crew will be well armed and prepared for a fight. I wouldn't advise trying to take prisoners, they'll do you no good and be more trouble than they're worth, so it would be wiser to kill them all. Except for the captain. There it might be worth your while."
"The captain?" Liam cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "And which of the infamous fiends commands this one? Vane? Flint? Henry Avery back from the dead with a crew of jolly skeletons?"
"None of those." Regina was clearly enjoying the reveal. "Not one you're likely to have heard of – yet. But as I said. You will, for any number of excellent reasons, want to make quite sure not to underestimate Captain Swan."
