Jack notices the missing dagger. When he asks, Charles merely shrugs, a decision he regrets the moment his friend's curiosity turns to suspicion.
"Come now, Charles, I know you to be fastidious when it comes to your blades. It did not simply walk off."
"Leave it be," Vane mutters, not bothering to look up from the fire. He was perfectly content sitting in the sand by himself with his rum until Jack decided to join him and ramble on about the fucking knife.
"No, I don't believe that's an option. You see, we both know it did not, as I said, walk off. Were it stolen, you would see it returned, and that's if there was even anyone foolish enough to steal from you in this camp, which there is not. That you are unconcerned about its whereabouts indicates that you do indeed know where it's gone, which means you made a gift of it. Ergo, it is now in the possession of one Eleanor Guthrie."
"Fuck you, Jack."
The noise his friend makes is something between a laugh and a snort. "You cannot be serious."
Charles grunts a reply, turning his attention back to the bottle of rum held loosely between his fingers. It's late and the camp is quiet, most of the men either asleep or up at the inn or tavern. What he's still doing on the beach, Charles isn't entirely sure; usually by now he'd have also made his way into the tavern, coaxed Eleanor into an alcove or back room, and detained her for a pleasant ten minutes or so before setting himself up with a table in the tavern to listen in on the day's news until she was free for the night.
But something about the night he found Eleanor in his tent leaves Charles unsettled, and Jack's meddling questions don't help.
It's not that he gave her the knife – she needs to be able to defend herself. And it's not even really that he taught her to use it – someone fucking needed to. But on that dark stretch of beach, every protective urge he's worked to bury came roaring to life, and he let it; he let himself be in the moment with her, care for her, not just as the source of their income but as something more. He let his anger at her shit of a father ignite in his belly and drive him forward, until there was a blade in her hand and she was armed with some semblance of how to use it.
It's the fact that he couldn't let it go, that rather than join her in his bed, he couldn't let another fucking moment pass without knowing she had some means to keep herself safe. It's the rush of relief and affection that overcame him when he found her waiting in his tent, an instant balm on his sour mood after a seemingly endless day on deck.
It's knowing that despite the times he's told himself that this thing with Eleanor is temporary, his feelings for her are not. Teach is right – a piece of her does board the ship with him, a sliver of Eleanor that is imbedded so far in his ribs he'll never claw her out.
Jack is still rambling on at his side, but Charles ignores him as he rises and stalks out of camp. Jack is smart enough not to follow him down the beach, whether it's his silence, or the set of his shoulders, or an innate knowledge that comes with having spent so much time in one another's company.
Charles walks until the rush of the waves is louder than the pop of the fires, until the scent of the ocean overpowers that of so many men living in one small place, and then he finds himself a spot in the sand, still warm from the day's sunlight. He's not foolish enough to be unarmed, and it's impossible to relax completely, but his shoulders loosen and his breaths deepen as he watches the ocean.
The truth is, he doesn't know what the fuck he's doing with Eleanor anymore. Some nights, he thinks it might be the same for her – this thing between them that started as a power play, but has somehow morphed into something else entirely. She has power over him, and that should be an instant reason to sever all ties, but even if it weren't for the business entanglements, he couldn't do it.
He's in love with her.
It's taken him a long time to admit it to himself, but it's not something he can ignore any longer. Denial is more dangerous than acknowledging it, planning for it, hardening himself to it so that any weakness is counterbalanced. He won't be surprised by it, won't allow anyone to throw it in his face as an insult without being prepared.
Charles loves Eleanor – but it's not a romantic epic for the ages. It is something that claws at his throat and twists in his belly; it is a fear for her safety when he is long at sea that is utterly unreasonable but he is powerless to stop.
He hears her footsteps long before she takes a seat next to him in the sand, silent at first, but then she curls into his side, sighing as his arm comes around her shoulders and tucks her close. "Jack told me you'd gone off by yourself," she says quietly, her fingers toying with one of the pendants hanging over his shirt.
"Jack should learn to keep his mouth shut." Charles doesn't take his eyes off the water, his thumb absently rubbing Eleanor's shoulder and his voice quiet. The truth is, he's glad she's found him, glad that as he's still working to process what the fuck he's going to do about being in love with the woman, they're far from prying eyes.
"I stopped to speak with Teach on my way to find you. He plans to set sail by noon tomorrow." His mood must be contagious; Eleanor's words are soft, as though speaking too loudly may upset the peace of the evening.
"You gave him a lead?"
"I did. Sugar cane. Quite a bit of it." Eleanor goes quiet again, but then she exhales all at once, blowing out her breath and tickling his skin. "We'd make quite a team, if you were captain."
He can't help a small laugh, his fingers dropping from her shoulder to drag his knuckles over the swell of her breasts. "We do well together," he agrees, but his voice is filled with suggestion, and Charles really doesn't want to talk business anymore if he's to be back at sea by midday. It doesn't take much to coax Eleanor into his lap, her knees in the sand on either side of his hips, the heat of her thighs bleeding through his pants, and then he kisses her.
And maybe she understands what he's trying to say with that kiss – maybe she can read the press of his thumb along her jaw and the tightening of his arm around her waist as easily as her ledgers. Or maybe she can't. In the end, it doesn't really matter – Eleanor isn't the sort of woman who puts much stock in pretty words. Too many men have offered them to her in her lifetime for her to believe them, anyway.
So Charles doesn't say a fucking word.
-x-
"No."
Eleanor glares at him across her desk, the chair hard against her spine as she watches him lean back, his casual posture a direct contradiction to the fury lashing from his eyes. "Why not?" she snaps, irritated. She's spent months thinking of this, and her plan is logical and sound. There is absolutely no reason for him to refuse.
"You're asking me to betray fucking Teach." He doesn't elaborate, pulling a familiar piece of eight from his pocket and idly flipping it over his knuckles. He forgets how well she knows him by now, forgets that what appears as bored insolence to anyone else reveals to her how unsettled his emotions are – because she knows it isn't just any piece of eight he keeps in his pocket.
And she's seen them together – seen the relationship of a father and son. She knows that Charles is the heir apparent, that Teach intends to leave him the legacy they've built together, but Eleanor is not a patient woman.
Nor does she intend to suffer Teach's influence over Charles any longer. He's smart enough not to directly challenge her, to know that this thing between her and Charles has teeth and that if pressed, the quartermaster would choose her. Instead, Teach undermines her authority every chance he gets, and lord knows what words of wisdom the man imparts on Charles when they're out to sea, miles and miles from Eleanor's influence.
But it can't go on like this forever, and if Teach won't push Charles into choosing a side, then she will.
"Do you want to be a fucking quartermaster forever?"
His eyes flash as he turns his glare on her, the coin disappearing into his palm. "There isn't a drop of loyalty in you, is there?" He laughs, a bitter, harsh noise as his eyes narrow. "How could there be when you've grown up in this fucking place, surrounded by people who are loyal only to themselves."
"Like you know a fucking thing about loyalty," she sneers, and she knows it's the wrong thing to say even before his jaw tightens, his lips pressed into a hard, thin line.
"I know a lot fucking more than you do," he replies after a hard silence. "A captain that rules by fear alone won't be a captain for long. Loyalty – to the ship, to the crew, to each other...you ought to have learned by now that my word fucking means something to me. My loyalties mean something to me." There's a bitter twist on the last of his words, a disgust with her and himself in the twist of his lips. "You wouldn't even recognize it if you fucking had it, would you?"
She remains silent, her temper curling around her tongue like a snake. Despite the tone he's taken with her, as though she were a child in need of scolding, Eleanor isn't that fucking stupid. It might be buried under his seething anger and disgust, but she hears what he won't say – that he's offered her his loyalty, and despite that, despite everything between them, sitting across from her now, he knows she would turn on him if it suited her purposes.
But as it stands, it is in her interests to keep him at her side, and perhaps the conversation is a good reminder of why she got involved with Charles Vane in the first place.
Perhaps she needs this reminder now more than ever. Now, when his kisses and touch are still as lust-soaked as ever, but something tender and soft lives in his eyes when he looks at her – now, when she's had too much to drink and finds herself watching the play of candlelight over the contours of his cheeks, the flames burning in his blue eyes, and wonders if she hasn't fallen in love with him.
"My loyalties are not the topic of conversation," she finally says when it becomes clear he will continue to seethe in silence until she responds. "This isn't about loyalty. It's about making a fucking future for yourself."
Charles has never been a man prone to restless fidgeting, but the stillness that overtakes him as he stares back at her in blatant outrage sends a shiver down her spine. And he stays there for a long moment, not moving, but evaluating her, stripping every mask she's ever worn. "A future?" he finally asks with no little contempt, his voice low but the words razor sharp as he watches her, a hint of an offer she's refused to acknowledge for weeks lingering on his tongue despite the anger swirling around him.
"That's what I fucking said," she snaps, refusing to yield to the whisper of another future, one that doesn't exist for women like her or men like Charles.
"Fuck you, Eleanor." He gets to his feet abruptly, knocking the chair over as he stands and not bothering to set it back to rights before storming out of the office, the door slamming open in front of him.
And she lets him go, because Eleanor and Charles are too damn similar, and she knows that despite his initial knee jerk reaction, he will come to her side of things. He will put his ambitions first, because no matter his loyalty to Teach, no matter what the man has done for him over the years, until Charles is captain of his own ship, he is bound to follow the orders of another – and the thing that he wants most in the world is to be free of anyone save himself. If that means he needs to make a deal with the devil – with her – then he'll do it.
And she supposes it's as it should be – Eleanor has never been a clear summer day. She is a storm in the dead of night, a shipkiller men will remember with fear in their hearts, and Charles Vane has been sailing straight into her for so long it's far too late to change course now.
Still, when she watches Teach get into the skiff from her spot on the beach a month later, Charles is not at her side. He remains with his men, his eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun as he watches his mentor row out into the bay, his face a hard mask. And when the skiff is too far into the water to be seen, he doesn't so much as look at her before turning back to the men and disappearing into the camp.
He doesn't come to the tavern. However he celebrates his new captaincy, it isn't with her. She tells herself it doesn't matter if he's fucking one of the whores tonight, if he's chosen to revel with his men instead of sharing the victory with its orchestrator – she has no claim on him. They've made each other no promises, and he's known the truth of it from the start.
I know you're using me for your own ends.
It was true that first night together, and it's true now. It doesn't matter how much the lines have blurred between them, how she's not even sure she can call what they're doing in bed fucking anymore, how hollow the victory is without him or how bitter the taste of ash is on her tongue.
She won. She stood on the beach, proud and strong, and all of Nassau knows it was her power at work. She banishes captains and she makes new ones as she pleases. The island is hers, and hers alone.
And so is her bed.
-x-
Not everyone is pleased about the changing of the guard.
Eleanor has long since grown used to the mixture of antagonism and grudging respect afforded to her by the pirate crews, but in the wake of Vane's captaincy, the shift is unmistakable.
She is not one of them. It does not matter how much coin she makes for them, or who she fucks. She is not a man, and therefore, they resent her kingmaking.
But what a king Charles Vane makes.
Matters between them remain tense in the immediate aftermath of Teach's banishment. Vane stays on the beach with his men, and when she visits his tent, their only interaction is a terse exchange of information on the whereabouts of a prize. Charles is all indolence, drunk on rum and sprawled in a chair he refuses to rise from to address her, cigar smoke curling around him.
"Thank you, Miss Guthrie," he drawls when she finishes speaking, his voice a low rumble in her chest. Icy blue eyes meet hers, a familiar challenge staring back at her. His civility is mockery at its finest, but there is none of his usual amusement present. He is not teasing her in that way she has come to realize is a sign of his affection – he is simply baiting her in front of Jack and Anne.
"Try not to get yourself killed," she snaps as she straightens her spine and glares right back. "Would be a fucking waste of my investment." She doesn't bother waiting for a reply, her last words tossed over her shoulder as she sweeps out of the tent.
She buries the niggling worry, the concern for a man she has come to care about despite herself.
And when a storm rolls in three days later, rain lashing the beach and wind turning the harbor into a frothing nightmare, Eleanor tells herself she is worried for her purse.
She doesn't give a shit about Charles Vane.
She doesn't give a shit about her empty bed. She chooses to focus on other things.
She doesn't miss him.
She doesn't.
-x-
It's three weeks before the Ranger limps into port, and Eleanor goes down to the beach to meet the crew – not to check on Vane, because she does not care – but to check on their cargo, if there is any.
But it's impossible to miss the clenched teeth and subtle limp with which Charles comes up the beach. To almost anyone else, it wouldn't be noticeable, but Eleanor has spent a very long time in close proximity to the man's body, and the way he's moving, he's in pain.
"A word, Captain." It isn't really a request, her spine straight and her eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun. He levels her with an assessing look, but he nods, sweeping his hand out across the sands with his usual irreverence.
"After you."
She doesn't acknowledge the way her heart begins to slam against her ribs as she gives him her back, the spot between her shoulder blades tingling with the intensity of his stare. It's the first time in a long time he's looked at her even remotely like he used to, the hint of a smirk pulling his lips into a curve she's traced with her tongue more times than she can count.
There's a brief conversation behind her, the low rumble of voices, but she picks out Charles' distinct fuck you, Jack and that's where the conversation ends.
By the time he follows her into his tent, all sense of restraint and reason has fled her mind. She turns, her intention to give him a thorough tongue lashing, to demand to know whether he's brought back a prize or failed her, but all she can see is the faint hint of amusement clouded by pain in his eyes, and when she launches herself at him, it isn't to lash out.
He grunts as her weight hits him, hissing through his teeth as she bumps whatever injury he's trying to hide, but then her mouth is on his, and it's like it was before. His arms surround her, crushing her body to his, the kiss nothing but raw need as the pins holding her hair in place are thrown to the ground one after the other. They clash and fight for what they want, her hands fumbling with his sword belt in an effort to drop it to the ground, his struggling for purchase in the volume of her skirts.
She manages to accomplish her task at the same moment his hand finds its way between her legs, and the noise that he draws from her is half gasp and half groan. It's been weeks since he touched her, weeks since anyone has touched her, and he isn't exactly being gentle, but Eleanor doesn't care. She just wants to forget for a few minutes, forget how complicated things have grown between them, forget his resentment and her bitterness.
But she never wants to forget how it feels when he's inside her, when he's so desperate for her they don't even make it to his bed. He bends her over his makeshift desk, his fingers tightly twined with hers as they grip the edge of the table together while he fucks her, his skin slapping into hers, neither of them able to form words.
It's over in a matter of minutes, leaving them both trembling. He doesn't pull away immediately, his grip on her hands loosening, his thumb caressing the inside of her wrist with such tenderness she nearly yanks her hand away. He kisses the curve of her neck one last time before she can make up her mind, but when she finally stands, her skirts falling back into place, he's watching her as though she's a snake loose in his tent.
"You wished a word?" His voice remains rough with the lingering effect of their coupling as he stands there tucking himself back into his pants and beginning to do up the buttons. Eleanor sees through his forced casualness so easily she wonders why he even bothers.
"What the fuck happened out there?"
He shrugs, and though he manages not to wince, pain flashes in his eyes. "Nasty piece of weather."
"You're hurt."
"It's nothing."
"It isn't nothing. Let me have a look."
"It isn't your fucking concern, Eleanor." He laughs at her undoubtedly shocked expression, the ice in his voice something she's never really expected. "You haven't been in my bed in weeks. One quick fuck doesn't give you dominion over me."
It's a lie, and they both know it. The fact that one quick fuck even happened, circumstances what they are at present, is a testament to her dominion, but Eleanor doesn't say that. Instead, switching tactics, she smiles, undoing the top button of her shirt. "Is that all you want, Charles? One quick fuck?" His eyes follow as she pops open another button, then another.
"Whatever fucking game you're playing, I'm not interested."
But he is interested, because she doesn't miss the way his eyes follow her movements, the way his pulse jumps in his throat, and the subtle shift of his weight as she continues to undress. "You're the one who's chosen to avoid me these weeks," she reminds him, taking a step closer.
"Maybe seeing what a manipulative bitch you can be taught me something."
Leaning closer, Eleanor undoes the final button of her shirt, her lips inches from his ear as she whispers, "Liar. You like it. You always have."
"Fuck you, Eleanor," he spits out, but then his hands are on her, shoving the shirt off her shoulders. His weight is heavy, familiar as he pushes her down onto the bed, his kiss as brutal as the grip of his fingers. There is nothing gentle about how he kneads her breast, pinching the tender skin and scraping his teeth along her neck.
She doesn't care. There's always been something visceral in their need for each other, their desire sharp as any blade – and just as dangerous.
Charles starts to push her skirts up, but she wants his skin on hers, wants him without the yards of fabric in the way. He growls when her nails dig into his biceps, shoving him back until she manages to roll to her side. He sees what she's about the moment she starts to fumble with the ties for her skirt, taking over and yanking the laces free. There's a moment where they're distracted, hurriedly discarding what remains of their clothes, but as soon as she's kicked the skirt free, Eleanor takes what she wants. Throwing one leg over his hips, she sinks down too quickly for him to reclaim control, rolling her hips forward as her nails rake over his chest.
He swears viciously, his eyes squeezing shut as she takes him deeper, her hips tight against his. When his eyes snap open a moment later, she catches a glimpse of longing lingering in his black stare, but whatever it is he's feeling, he doesn't want her to see it. Charles sits up without warning and captures her mouth with his, his fingers tangling in her hair to hold her in place. His other hand drops to her hip, his fingers digging into her soft skin hard enough to bruise, guiding her, keeping her where he wants, asserting his control despite her position above him.
And she lets him, because at the end of the day, Charles is hers, and they both know it.
It's why she lets him flip her onto her back, and despite the hard kisses and nip of his teeth, his strokes become slower, teasing. It doesn't take Eleanor long to realize he wants her to beg, wants her give herself to him like she once did without reservation. But Eleanor isn't the girl she once was, and the balance of power between them isn't what it once was, so she digs her nails into his back, and gives him little more than a few bitten off curses she can't contain.
Neither of them acknowledges it, the battle raging between them, but she sees it when she looks into his eyes, the storm sailing over the horizon straight for her; she feels it in nearly every move he makes, sees it in the hard edge to his smirk when he can tell she's getting close to the edge, and rather than push her over, he takes a step back. It's the force of his thrusts, his hips sure to bruise the inside of her thighs, and it's the tension radiating from him, anger coiling between them right next to their pleasures.
Eleanor gives as good as she gets, dragging her nails down his back, uncertain if it's sweat or blood under her fingertips. It doesn't matter. She craves him, always has, and whether the darkness in him is close to the surface or buried beneath his calm veneer, it's always there. It twines with her own, two shadows merging into one writhing tangle of flesh, neither willing to back down.
They are both stubborn people. It goes on for a long time.
But in the end, she has always been his weakness, and he has always known it, so when he can take it no longer, he drives into her hard and fast. He leans down to kiss her, a sloppy, messy kiss that's more teeth and tongue than lips, and the angle gives her what she needs to fall with him.
They lay together panting after, his fingers twined with hers the only sign that he wants her there, that he isn't about to throw her out into the middle of the camp where everyone knows he's just fucked her.
Twice.
The sun is low in the sky, and it's hot in the tent, their bodies covered in a fine sheen of sweat. She tells herself she doesn't care, that she isn't profoundly relieved to have him next to her, to smell him on her skin even if he has just come off weeks at sea. And when she rolls onto her side to really take a look at him now that he's naked, she tells herself that she definitely isn't concerned about the slash along his ribs.
"What happened?" she asks quietly, running her nail along the edge of the wound. Someone stitched it as sea – by the neat, even rows her guess is Jack – but their recent activity has left it red and livid, one of the stitches popped and a small trickle of blood leaking down his side. A quick glance at her own skin shows an ugly red smear, and there's a comment there somewhere, his blood on her, but she ignores it.
"Your investment will live another day," he says without opening his eyes, his breaths slowing but the bite in his words remaining.
"Charles."
He looks up at her then, his head pillowed on his bent arm, the hard lines he wears so well smoothed out by the sated exhaustion that's always given her a rush. The rich brown of his skin only makes his eyes appear more pale, ghostly as they stare up at her with so many questions and no answers.
But whatever it is he's looking for, he brings his hand to her cheek, his rough palm settling against her soft skin as his thumb caresses her jaw, the gentle touch holding her captive. "I missed you," he finally says, and it's so quiet and so low she isn't certain he meant to say it. But then his eyes harden, and though he doesn't pull his hand away, his voice is cold when he adds, "But ask me to betray my men again, and I will cut your throat myself."
She wants to tell him he's a liar – he can no sooner harm her than give up his captaincy for a life of leisure – but he believes it in that moment, and while he might not actually kill her, she's always known Charles Vane is a dangerous man. So she nods, and she kisses his fingers when they move over her lips. She has no desire to blind herself to that side of him – good or bad, that side of him makes him the man he is.
Shrugging on one of his clean shirts as she rises, Eleanor pulls her skirt back on, making herself decent enough to retrieve a pitcher of water barely ten paces from the tent. "Stay there," she tells Charles, who only smirks in return.
Once she's back, Eleanor crosses to the basin, soaking a cloth and returning to his side after kicking off her skirt impatiently. He watches her, expression unexpectedly soft as she begins to clean around his stitches, carefully wiping away the grime and salt and blood, and he tells her what happened out at sea while she works, his hand in her hair. And for a moment, it's as if nothing has ever changed, and it should frighten her, but it doesn't.
And that's just as terrifying.