DISCLAIMER: I don't own Black Sails. It is not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ok, so the holidays kicked my ass and RL and writer's block helped administer the beating. But I'm not dead, so hurray! :p Anyways, I finally managed to hunker down and write something postable and it's way longer than average, so hopefully that makes up for the crazy wait.
As usual, I apologize for the horrendous delay in updates. I'm attempting to keep it up to at least one update per month. Thanks to everyone who's still following and commenting, you guys are the best!
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It was incredible. She'd no idea such a place existed, especially not so close to New Providence. She'd heard tales of such escaped slave communities being scattered all over the Caribbean. The English often spun ghastly fables of the Godless heathens residing within these uncharted isles, their stories designed to spread fear and enmity among the civilized masses.
But Eleanor had never paid those childish tales much mind.
While she had believed it plausible that such colonies existed, she hadn't bought into the whole Godless heathen angle. And she'd just assumed that such places would be fairly small and scattered, mostly insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Through her time with the English, she'd learned that there were at least a handful of insurgents residing on Maroon Island. But she'd never imagined there would be so many of them, that it would be something so grand and organized.
They'd created an entire civilization for themselves. Thousands of escaped slaves living free and independent, right under everyone's noses. Eleanor was not a woman easily impressed. But this? This was remarkable.
It took a significant cache of willpower to keep her head down and her mouth shut as Charles guided her quickly through the bustling village, his hand gripping her shoulder. She wanted to stop in the middle of it all, throw her hood back and gawk. Though she was aware that such an action would be less than productive and likely disastrous, it was still terribly tempting. After all, she'd never really been one for self-restraint.
However, here she conceded. There were larger things at stake.
"Charles." She exclaimed breathlessly as he finally ushered her into a nearby empty hut. She lowered her hood and turned to face him once the door was closed. A look of elated excitement colored her features as she spoke. "This place," She flung her arms out for emphasis. "this place is incredible! There are so many of them. Why didn't you tell me?"
"It wasn't necessary." He grunted. Her elation had tightened his gut, caused a tender, gooey and unwelcome warmth to spread through his chest. He didn't like it.
Her grin faltered slightly. "Necessary? This changes everything. You've got at least a thousand able bodied men out there, maybe more. That's a force to be reckoned with."
"I know." He said gruffly. He stood just inside the door, debating whether or not it was safe to leave her here in the hut while he went to speak with Flint and the others. She wouldn't like being left out of the loop and he wouldn't put it past her to try and follow him out.
She frowned and crossed her arms over her chest, a look of mild irritation sliding across her face. "Then why don't you look pleased?" She questioned haughtily.
Already exasperated, he sighed and raked a hand through his unruly hair. "Honestly? I'm still trying to work out what the hell to do with you between now and tomorrow." He growled, taking a menacing step towards her. "I don't imagine you'd concede to staying put while I go convince Flint not to shoot you on sight."
Her eyes narrowed. She wasn't sure what had crawled up his ass, but whatever it was had set him on edge. Her hackles rose with his obvious desire to quarrel. Were they not on such a tight schedule, she might have been inclined to indulge him. Instead, she made a valiant attempt to remain calm and reasonable.
"No, I wouldn't." She said firmly. "And you're about as persuasive as a pile of rocks. So unless you're planning on bludgeoning him into submission, I doubt you'll get very far. Flint and I are of a like mind, I can make him see reason." She insisted. "Bring him here."
He made an irritated sound somewhere between a scoff and a snarl. He stood only about a foot from her now, his fists balled at his sides and a murderous look in his eyes. He'd had quite enough of this. He could feel her inching deeper under his skin with every moment he spent forced to further endure her company. It was infuriating, to be so blatantly confronted with his own deficiency and yet still so unable to overcome it.
"We were getting on just fine before you decided to throw your lot back in with us." He growled. Who did she think she was, making assumptions and barking demands? She was hardly in a position to dictate anything. She was lucky he'd decided to let her keep breathing. God knew she hadn't deserved it.
"And now you'll get on even better." She hissed. Getting on just fine, her ass. Being captured and nearly hung from the gallows was hardly fine. Martyring himself was not fine. A beach assault was not fine. None of it was fine. He needed her, whether he liked it or not. And she had no intention of letting him forget it.
His eyes narrowed to slits as he closed the last foot between them, his face a mask of barely restrained fury. She lifted her chin defiantly, daring him to make a move.
They didn't have time for this. He knew they didn't. But when she'd lowered that hood all smiles and giddy excitement, his traitorous heart had shivered in his chest. And frankly, it had pissed him off. When was he ever going to learn? Was he simply doomed to thrash around in this tangled web forever, never truly being free of her?
He opened his mouth to say something sufficiently scathing, but was cut off by a voice calling from outside the hut.
"Captain Vane?" A pause. "Captain Vane, are ya in there? I've a message from Captain Rackham, says it's urgent."
For a moment neither Charles nor Eleanor made any move to part or speak. They stood inches from each other, she with stubborn defiance shining in her eyes, and he with a rage still bubbling just below the surface.
After another moment Charles finally broke their standoff. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and stepped away from her, reigning in his temper. "What is it?" He barked, stomping over to the door and yanking it open.
Standing a few feet behind Charles, Eleanor peered over his shoulder at the man outside the hut. She frowned as she recognized the disheveled looking man.
The toothless cretin... Lou.
Lou caught her gaze over Charles' shoulder and gave her a hesitantly gummy grin, greeting her with a slight wave of his hand.
Eleanor sneered.
Not so bold now, are you, Lou? She thought bitterly. He'd been all mouth and manhandling before he'd realized who's property she was supposed to be. Now, suddenly, he was all manners.
Charles arched a brow. He cast a look over his shoulder and found Eleanor frowning, then glanced back at Lou, who looked uncomfortable. With an irritated huff, Charles gestured Lou inside. "Get in here." He grumbled.
Lou didn't waste any time complying.
It wouldn't do them any good to stand in the open doorway giving everyone a view of who was residing inside. The only reason Charles was letting Lou in at all was because he knew Lou had already seen Eleanor and hadn't been any the wiser.
Once inside, Charles crossed his arms and turned to face Lou. When Lou did nothing but glace charily between Charles and Eleanor, he was given an expectant and impatient look from both parties.
"Well?" Charles finally coaxed.
"Sorry, Sir. Captain Rackham wanted me to give ya this." He held out a crumpled looking sheet of folded paper toward Charles.
"What's this about?" Charles asked, reaching for the paper.
Lou shrugged, letting Charles take the paper from him. "He didn't say."
"And you didn't read it?" Charles asked obliquely.
Lou looked a little baffled by the question. "No, Sir. I can't read."
Charles gave Lou a solemn nod before gesturing absently for him to leave. Lou gave Eleanor a final once over, his eyes lingering just a moment too long before he turned to hurry from the hut. Eleanor rolled her eyes. If Charles noticed the man's interest in her at all, he ignored it. He unfolded the paper and began to read.
She watched his frown deepen as his eyes scanned the page, and her stomach twisted with dread. "What is it?" She asked apprehensively.
He lifted his eyes to meet hers, his expression serious. "Anne is less than thrilled with our little arrangement. She's more inclined to meet your offer with the edge of a blade than with reason. Jack's held her off thus far, but he's not convinced he can keep her leashed much longer."
"He has to." Eleanor stated firmly, her brows knit together with worry and frustration. "We can't afford to fuck this up."
His face remained serious, impassive. "I know." He breathed. "If she shows up, it'll be dealt with it. Until then, we carry on as planned." In all honesty, he wasn't sure what the fuck he was supposed to do with this information. It wasn't as if getting rid of Anne was an option, and he wasn't about to let her murder their best chance at besting the English either.
For a moment she only watched him, her face a mask of concerned uncertainty. Finally, she nodded. She'd little choice but to trust that he wouldn't just let Anne kill her. There was too much at stake and she was certain he understood that. For now, that would just have to be enough.
"Alright," She sighed, crossing her arms and nodding resignedly. "where would you like to start?"
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Convincing Flint had actually taken far less effort than she'd expected. His thirst for vengeance had far outweighed any residual hatred he may have been harboring in regards to Eleanor's betrayal. And Silver, who had apparently become Flint's new right hand, had been quick to see the merit in her plan.
They were a strange pair, Silver and Flint. The two of them operated in an almost symbiotic fashion, a mutually beneficial understanding between them. Though Eleanor couldn't help but notice how well Silver had taken to managing Flint's moods. He seemed to know exactly what to say and just how to say it. He had a way of manipulating the situation and the people around him, of planting ideas.
She got the distinct impression that Silver spent a fair bit of time implementing those skills in the management of Flint. Which was something Flint probably needed, given that he'd become increasingly reckless and volatile since the death of Mrs. Barlow.
But it was also somewhat unnerving.
Flint was one of the most devious and clever men she'd ever met. If Silver could maneuver him, then Silver was not a man she had any interest of making an enemy of. As far as she was concerned, a clever man could be just as dangerously fatal as any brutish one. Sometimes, more so.
She'd have to keep a close eye on him.
Overall though, things had gone quite well. They'd conducted the meeting without too much blow back. An agreement had been reached and plans had finally been set in motion. Currently, there were at least a hundred men setting traps in the jungle. It would be crude, given that they had very little time, but effective as long as all went as planned.
Another small drove of men, approximately another hundred, would be waiting on the beach for the English's assault. After the bombardment, most of the beach's forces would be decimated. And after taking such a seemingly heavy beating, the men would be commanded to fall back, retreating into the jungle. With any luck, the English would follow. If there was any doubt that the pursuit might not occur, a man named Dobbs would be dispatched to expedite the move inland by surrendering to the English under the guise of having turned on Flint, Charles and Silver.
If all went well, the English would charge head long into a hail of bullets, blades, and near a thousand more fighting men. It would be a massacre, a devastating loss for Woodes' forces.
Though anxious and antsy, Eleanor couldn't help but feel a little smug about that. It was finally happening. They were almost there, finally making some progress. They might actually pull it all off. There was a certain thrill that came with that knowledge. A thrill laced with worry and fear, but still a thrill nonetheless.
Consumed by her thoughts, she didn't even notice when Charles slipped back into the hut. She nearly hit the ceiling when he noisily dropped his shirt and sword into a pile on the floor just behind her chair. "Jesus Christ!" She hissed, her hand involuntarily flying up to press against her heart as she whipped around to face him.
He smirked, taking a somewhat juvenile pleasure in the obvious discomfort he'd just caused her.
She found him standing about six feet from her; topless, sweaty, and full of dirt and grime. He was holding a damp rag with which he was swiping his grubby hands on. His mouth was turned up in one corner, visibly amused by her agitated reaction. She had every intention of telling him just where he could shove that stupid smirk, but she was momentarily distracted by his bedraggled state of undress.
She couldn't help but notice the way the candlelight glistened across his damp skin. A heat pooled low in her abdomen with the sight of him, temporarily sidetracking her. Which was ridiculous considering she'd seen him far more naked and in far more appealing circumstances, without ever so much as batting an eye.
It made her feel foolish and callow, like some hormone-ruled adolescent.
As such, she was quick to shove down that initial wave of lust, drag her eyes from his body to his face, and school her features into something less compromising. She didn't want to give him anything else to smirk about. She wanted an update on where they were with the trap setting.
But it was too late, he'd already seen it. He'd watched her eyes darken, witnessed the prurience that flit briefly across her face before she'd schooled it. He knew that look. He'd spent years living for that look. It was a look that both pleased and irritated him, tightened his groin and sent his mind reeling into less than virtuous places.
He told himself it didn't matter that she still wanted him. It didn't matter that he still wanted her. None of it mattered. But that scolding little inner monologue didn't stop him from experiencing a sliver of male pride, an arrogance that left him feeling rather pleased with himself.
If she wanted him, then he wasn't the only one suffering. And that knowledge brought with it the most ridiculous touch of comfort. It didn't make a lick of sense, but it eased the pain just ever so slightly.
Her voice broke the silence, snapping him from his thoughts. "I take it your being here means the traps have been set?" She asked, her voice smooth and austere.
No trace of the lust he'd seen in her eyes only moments before. She'd always been quite good at that; at forcing an outward appearance, burying her emotions behind whatever mask best suited her goals.
He nodded, tossing the sullied rag into the pile with his shirt and blade. "Almost. What can be done, has been. The men are just finishing up." He moved to sit at the foot of the bed, bending to pry off his boots and toss them haphazardly the floor. "We move out to the beach just before daybreak. In a few hours, Silver will take you and the other women and children further inland into hiding. Best to get in a few hours sleep before then."
Her faced twisted into a look of startled disbelief. "You think I'm going to scurry off and hide with the women and children?" She asked incredulously, insult clear in her tone.
He gave her a look, like she'd finally lost her mind. "Yes. Why? Did you figure you were going to march into battle at our side, guns blazing?" He grunted, his tone facetious and grating.
"No." She hissed. "But I'll not cower in a hole with the women and children either."
He looked up at her with a tired sort of frustration in his face. "And what would you suggest?"
She frowned, looking thoughtful for another moment before responding. "I've brandished weaponry out of necessity in the past. I'm well aware I'm no swordsman or gunslinger, but I handle myself well enough when I have to. Leave me here among the men meant to hold the village. Let me find something of use to do here."
Her tone was testy, but he didn't miss the edge of desperation in it. She needed to feel productive, useful, like she was doing something worthwhile instead of sitting on her hands. He understood that need, often felt the pull of it himself. Idle hands, and whatnot.
"And if If the English make it past our lines?" Charles asked sternly.
She lifted her chin, her eyes full of fire. "Then we're all dead anyway." She declared seriously.
He studied her with a scrupulous intensity, something unreadable in his eyes. "The most useful information in our possession resides inside your head. Should you remain here and become captured, they'll do what it takes to pry that from you." His tone was grave, cautionary. He wanted to know if she really understood what she was asking for, if she'd really lay down her life for this even knowing what it might cost her. "After all you've done, the fact that you're a woman won't matter to them. They'll be quiet about it, but they'll handle you as they would any treasonist."
She nodded solemnly. She knew what he was saying; she'd be locked away, likely tortured and eventually executed. They'd want what information she had in regards to their rebel plans, resources and remaining forces. But she had no intention of ever allowing things to get that far. She wouldn't go back to the tower or her gilded cage, nor would she face the humiliation of a public execution.
If she had to, she'd end it all long before things came to that.
He could see her face was still wrought with stubborn determination. But now there was something almost sad in her eyes as well. He wondered briefly which thought she mourned more; her own death, or the death of Nassau. He imagined she likely held both in near equal contempt.
When she spoke it was quiet and firm, laced with a somber acceptance and resolve. "I know... But I can't go back to that kind of reticence," Honestly, she didn't even understand why she'd ever thought she could endure it in the first place. "and I won't go back to that tower..." That tower had been hell, a filthy and isolated, destitute hole where she'd only her thoughts for comfort. "You leave me a pistol, and I'll make sure there's nothing left for them to take."
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees as he met her eyes. His gaze was heavy, evaluating and intense. There was a silence between them, then a quiet understanding.
He believed her. It might have been foolish of him, but he did. She wouldn't allow herself to be taken, whether it was back to Woodes or back to London. She'd rather fall by her own hand, eat a bullet, go out with a final 'fuck you'.
He could appreciate that, even understand it.
The silence between them stretched on, and she watched as his eyes dropped briefly to her throat when she swallowed the lump that resided there.
She stepped forward, movement cautious and hesitant. He eyed her quizzically.
There was a good chance they'd all be dead by this time tomorrow. She hoped that wasn't the case, that they'd instead massacre the English and move on to retake Nassau. She wanted to give the civilized world a reason to reconsider the consequences of this invasion, to understand who they were fucking with. But none of it came with a guarantee. There was no certainty in this undertaking, no assurance of success.
They were diving head long into shallow water with little more than a desperate prayer.
But that uncertainty wasn't quite enough to deter her, she'd no intention of backing down. She knew what she wanted out of life and she intended to do her damnedest to make sure she got it. But if this was to be her last night, she'd spend it how she wanted, no regrets.
She had enough regrets, she wouldn't add tonight to the list.
She feared he might refuse her, but she still needed to try, needed to know she'd done all she could. She couldn't bring herself to say what needed to be said, but she could try to show him. She stepped closer to him, her proximity forcing him to sit upright and crane his neck up to keep looking at her. Still there was silence.
She stepped between his open knees.
He said nothing, made no move to touch or stop her.
The tightness in her chest eased ever so slightly as his lack of movement emboldened her, made her reasonably confident he wasn't going to deny her. She lifted her hands to cup either side of his face, her thumbs stroking gently across the stubble along his jaw. He still didn't move, just continued to stare up at her with brows drawn and something indiscernible clouding his eyes.
He knew he should stop her, that every time she touched him he sunk a little further into madness. But she looked so forlorn, so resigned and determined. He saw the reasoning behind her actions, knew she'd closed the distance between them because she feared they'd both be dead tomorrow.
He wasn't stupid. He understood she still had feelings for him, that she always had. Her affections hadn't been enough to shield him from her ambition, but they had still been present. It was why she'd been so furious when he'd killed her father, why she'd beaten him to a pulp when he'd told her the truth about Richard.
He knew she still cared for him, even if she hated herself for it.
But he wasn't sure that should make a difference. It obviously wasn't enough. She'd made her choice when she'd left him standing on the other side of that gate. She'd chosen Nassau. That should have been the end of things. It should have been enough to make him hate her, to make him want to turn from her touch.
But it wasn't, and he didn't. He still loved her, still wanted her. And he feared he always would.
Fighting it was onerous and taxing, downright exhausting. And it all felt so Goddamned futile. But he couldn't seem let it go. Logically he knew that surrender wasn't an option. He couldn't allow her to crawl inside him again because he might not survive her next assault, figuratively or literally.
But in that moment, right then, he couldn't bring himself to care. He could see the reflection of his own pain in her countenance, a desperate desire to make the next few hours count for something, anything.
She needed this.
Maybe he did too.
Fuck it. If they were dead tomorrow, it wouldn't matter anyway.
His eyes searching hers, he lifted his hands to grip the backs of her thighs through her skirts, urging her slightly forward. He watched something akin to relief flicker across her face as he did so. She must have taken his movement for the go-ahead that it was because she bent forward, gently brushing her mouth across his.
The kiss started off slow. Tender and warm, full of words left unspoken. But as his grip tightened on her thighs, her hands moved from his jaw to fist in the hair at the base of his neck. The kiss deepened, became more desperate and heady as her tongue slid across the seam of his lips, demanding entry. He opened for her as she angled his head back with her grip in his hair.
He pulled her more firmly against him, the movement forcing her to bend somewhat awkwardly to keep their lips joined. Suddenly impatient, she pulled away from him. Releasing his hair, she hastily bent to scoop up her skirts, bunching them around her thighs as she climbed into his lap to straddle his hips.
He made a low sound in the back of his throat as she adjusted herself atop him. The sound sent a delicious shiver down her spine, and she almost smiled. It was something she'd always reveled in, the ability to evoke such base and primal reactions from him. It gave her an inexplicable rush, made her feel unburdened and alive.
Her breath quickened as her hands tangled once more in his hair, her mouth crashing back down upon his. His hands found her rear, tugging her forward so that her pelvis ground against him through the front of his trousers.
There were too many clothes, not enough skin, never enough skin.
He broke away from her mouth to have his teeth and tongue trail fire across her jaw, down the side of her neck and over the junction between neck and shoulder. She arched in his arms, grinding against him as she drug her nails down over his shoulders and biceps.
His hands pressed between them to tug deftly at the clasps on the front of her corset. He grunted, mildly irritated when the last clasp proved more stubborn than it's predecessors. When the clasp finally slipped open he cast the garment haphazardly to the floor before helping her struggle free from her chemise, yanking it up over her head and tossing it aside. With her upper half bare, one of his calloused hands grasped firmly at her breast, his thumb rubbing roughly over the taut nipple. His other hand gripped her hip, holding the heat of her core against him as she squirmed.
She looked down at him through hooded eyes, lips parted and breath heaving. She was beautiful, potent and toxic. Lascivious and heady. Virulent and irresistible.
She would be his end. He was as sure of it now as he'd ever been.
She leaned down, pressing her her cheek against his as her breath tickled his ear. One of her hands gripped the back of his neck, keeping him close. The other slipped low, popping open the front of his trousers with a practiced ease that had his breath catching.
She pulled him free, stroked her hand over the length of him. Her teeth caught the shell of his ear, her tongue sending shivers straight to his groin. He growled.
Needing to regain control of the situation, he fisted his hand in her hair at the base of her skull, jerking her head back and causing her body to arch backward. "Enough." He grunted, his voice rough and heavy with desire.
His manhandling spiked her arousal, lit a fire low in her belly that had her thighs clenching. But she'd never been the submissive sort, and she had every intention of reasserting her intractability, of putting up some kind of fight. She knew he liked the challenge as much as she did.
At least, that had been the plan. But then his hand had slithered up her thigh, nimbly seeking out the apex of her thighs. He found her warm and wet, his fingers gliding along her slippery folds to roll expertly over that exquisite little bundle of nerves.
At that point, any plans for resistance became muddled, fled her mind in a hungry, hedonistic rush.
He hadn't released her hair. She was still bent slightly backward, her body arched against him, breasts thrust forward as she continued to roll her hips against his hand. She gripped his shoulders like a lifeline, her fingers digging harshly into taut muscle. The angle no longer bothered her, any discomfort she might have felt was drowned beneath his ministrations.
He shifted her atop him, retracting his hand from between her legs. She started to object, but fell silent as she felt him guiding himself toward her entrance. He slid along her folds, coating himself in the sticky heat of her.
She rolled her hips, trying to force him inside, all but begging him to make that final push, frustrated by his lack of obedience. He didn't need half so much convincing, but he enjoyed watching her squirm. However his patience was waning and he'd had his fill of games.
Without warning he snapped his hips upward, slamming into her abruptly.
Her mouth dropped open, a startled and enraptured mewl jumping from her throat before she could think to stop it. She wasn't about to admit it, but a part of her lived for these moments. The torridity, the blind and mindless ecstasy. In those moments, little else mattered, the world would fall away. She could drown herself in the feel of him. The taste, the heat, that inexplicable impression of totality; an irrational sense of wholeness. For a time, it would be only the two of them, each hopelessly lost in the carnality of the other.
Of course, she knew it was all temporary. When it finally ended, the world would come crashing back in, spoiling that beautiful, worry-free sense of euphoria. But for now, while she rode this wave of bliss, none of that held any weight.
Her hands hastened blindly across his chest and shoulders, her nails biting into his skin as as she mindlessly sought for something to cling to. She strained her eyes downward, fighting to look at him despite the fact that he was still gripping her hair, still angling her neck and body backward. She needed to see his face, bear witness to the raw and animalistic salacity she knew she would find in his eyes.
"Let go." She growled breathlessly, reaching up behind her head to grasp at the wrist of the hand he'd fisted in her hair. Despite the firmness of her demand, her hips didn't break rhythm, still struggled to keep pace with the snapping of his own.
He grit his teeth, watching her writhe and pant through hooded eyes. He was half inclined to deny her, to defy her demand simply to spite her. But as her hand left his wrist to join her other upon his shoulders, she suddenly yanked him forward. She pressed herself against his chest, soft breasts and hardened nipples rubbing against him with each heaving breath and fevered stroke of hips. And in that moment he reconsidered, leaving go of her hair in favor of grasping her ass, pulling her more fiercely into every thrust. He buried his face in her neck, silently reveling in the heady scent of her, the salty taste of her skin.
Able to move more freely, she leaned forward, grasping the sides of his face in her hands and pulling him away from her throat. His eyes flicked up toward hers with the movement and she peered down at him through glazed eyes, her body ablaze.
There it was, that deliciously carnal look. An expression that spoke of unbridled craving, of intimacy and rapture. It was a look that promised unimaginable pleasure, even as it selfishly sought self-gratification. And just as expected, that look set her on fire, sent a thrill straight into the pit of her stomach and curled her toes.
She kissed him then, smashing her mouth against his in a wild gnashing of tongues, lips and teeth. When she finally broke away she shoved him back hard, forcing him to lay flat against the bed's rumpled linen with his knees still hanging off the mattress and his feet on the floor.
He grunted, not even sure himself whether it was in protest or pleasure. She splayed her palms flat against his chest, leaning her weight slightly forward as she readjusted herself and began to move.
This, this was what was always missing. The feel of her, the heat. The wild and reckless abandon with which she moved above him. This woman was ruthless, wanton, a force to be reckoned with. He craved her, even as he knew he shouldn't. Even as he reveled in the feel of her, he knew it was a mistake. Every time he drank of her, he risked another piece of himself, but something always kept him coming back. Despite his protest, his soul remained tightly tethered with hers.
She was a witch, an enchantress of the deadliest kind. Yet he couldn't get enough of her. He was marching happily to his own demise, and he hadn't even the will to stop himself.
Her breath was heaving, her breasts jumping lightly with every fevered roll of her pelvis. Bewitched, he watched her bounce and jerk atop him. She set her own frenzied pace, seeking out that ideal angle; the one he knew would send her toppling over the edge into oblivion. With just the right amount of patience and pressure, she'd fall apart in his hands, a quivering mass of sticky heat and damp flesh.
He longed to see it, ached for her release almost as much as his own. But not because he was concerned about her enjoyment, his reasoning was more selfish than that. He wanted to watch her come apart because it thrilled him, set his blood boiling with an inexplicable rush. But this desire was a double edged blade, it took from him as much as it gave. With the rapture that came with watching her loose herself, came unwelcome emotion, a reminder of his feelings for her.
Yet even still, he couldn't bring himself to look away. She was his sickness, a plague that eradicated his ability to reason, to think clearly.
She consumed everything, and he let her.
She pressed forward, finally finding the angle that allowed her to generate the most exquisite friction between her clit and his pelvis. She let loose a breathy sigh as she rocked against him, her lips parting as her eyes closed. She quickened her pace, chasing madly after that building crest.
One of his hands trailed up her stomach to grasp roughly at her breast, the other slipped under her skirts to grip bruisingly at her thigh. Something resembling a moan tumbled raspily from her chest. Her breath shuttered and his blood boiled, heat spreading low in his abdomen. He grit his teeth, fought to keep pace with her movements as she climbed that beautiful ridge.
She let loose a throaty sound, her mouth opening in that classic 'O' shape as her hips lost their cadency and her body trembled.
"Charles, I-" Whatever she'd been about to say, died on her lips with a strangled sound as she came. Her body fell forward, her fingernails digging desperately into his shoulders as she buried her face in the crook of his neck, her breath hot on his skin.
He made it last, lifting and angling her slightly in order to get the leverage he needed to batter his hips up into hers. Her breathy groans, those almost whimpers, they drove him mad. She twitched and quivered around him, her walls clenching, demanding he give up what was left of himself.
His muscles bunched and trembled with the effort to keep moving. She continued to shudder and jerk above him, wantonly riding out what was left of her release.
As the intensity of her climax dulled, she sat up. Leaning backward as she moved, she reached up to roughly fondle her own chest. Her body bore down on him, squeezing him mercilessly as her hips rolled frantically against him.
"Come." She rasped breathlessly. She'd meant for it to sound more demanding, but it came off more like a plea, a desperate solicitation.
He loved it when she did that, both begged and ordered him to spill himself in one single syllabled breath. Her timing was always perfect, demanding a response. It was mind-boggling how she could utter that one word and have his body react as if she'd actually reached inside him and flipped a switch.
His muscles tensed, his hips snapping furiously into hers before he shuddered and body stiffened on a throaty growl as her filled her with a searing heat.
She arched, rolling her hips with his on a breathy cry before she collapsed bonelessly atop him. She lay sprawled across him, his softening member still cached snugly inside her. Neither of them moved, no one spoke. In a tangled heap, they simply panted and convalesced, rode out that post-coital bliss.
The moment was shattered as Jack's distressed and exasperated voice carried into the hut from outside it. "Anne! Anne, listen to me. Goddammit, woman, take a moment to consider this!"
Eleanor shot Charles a concerned look before quickly rolling off of him. An involuntary shiver coursed through her as he slipped free of her, their mixed fluids running down the inside of her thighs. She ignored it, hastily shrugging into her discarded chemise before trying to stuff the hem of it back into the waist of her skirts. She cast Charles an irritated look when she realized he seemed completely unconcerned with the knowledge that a whirlwind of shit was about to come hurling through the door not ten feet from them.
Seemingly at ease, he dragged himself up into a sitting position and lazily reached for his dirty shirt. But instead of putting it back on, he began using it to clear the evidence of their coupling from between his thighs.
She huffed, his composure irking her. Did he think that flaunting the fact that they'd fucked was going to make this encounter with Anne any easier? Because it certainly wasn't. It was only going to further enrage that cantankerous little brute, make her assume Charles was simply being led round by his dick.
Which wasn't helpful at all.
He'd just tossed the soiled shirt into the corner and begun shrugging into his trousers, when the door to the hut crashed open. Eleanor was still working on the last few clasps of her corset as Anne flew into the room, Jack hot on her heels.
Anne stopped just inside the door, hand on the hilt of her sheathed blade as she scrutinized the scene before her. She sneered, eyeing the space between Charles, the end of the bed, and where Eleanor was standing behind it. She was no doubt gauging the likelihood of getting past Charles and around the bed to Eleanor before anyone could stop her.
Jack came into the room behind Anne, closing the door swiftly behind him. He gave Charles an incredulous look as Charles casually stuffed himself back into his trousers. Jack's eyes flicked from Charles to Eleanor then back again. "Really?" Jack exclaimed aporetically, clearly referring to the intercourse which had so obviously just been had. "Christ almighty, Charles..." He shook his head in bewildered frustration.
Charles merely arched a brow and continued to look unimpressed. He'd no intention of trying to justify himself. He didn't have to. Who he fucked was none of their concern. At least that's what he told himself, how he mentally rationalized his own behaviour.
"Don't make this difficult." Anne hissed at Charles. Moving slowly with the tense agility of a seasoned predator, she tried to circle around him. When Charles merely stepped in front of her, a silent warning in his face, her eyes narrowed. "You wanted her here because she's got information on the island's siege, yeah? Well, now we have it too. She's served her purpose. What's the use in keeping the traitorous bitch?" She reasoned venomously.
"I already told you." Jack huffed toilsomely, obviously flustered and impatient with the whole situation. "She'll likely prove useful. She's been a part of both worlds, played both sides. She can give us an insight we wouldn't have otherwise."
Eleanor sent Jack a look, something teetering between surprise and gratitude.
Anne scoffed. "Only if she doesn't fuck us first." She spat.
With that comment, Eleanor's temper spiked and she decided she'd had quite enough of remaining quietly passive. Logically, she knew Anne's mistrust was a valid response. But it was difficult to remain level headed while Anne hurled accusations with no real knowledge of what she'd sacrificed to get here. "Do you even know what the fuck you're on about? Do you know what I've risked to bring all this about? If tomorrow pans out it will be because of me, because of what I'm offering."
Charles eyed Anne wearily, his body tensing in preparation for what he assumed would be an inevitable bout of violence. Even if Anne made a move, he wouldn't kill her. He wouldn't do that to Jack. But he wasn't above putting her in her place.
The muscle in Anne's jaw twitched and her eyes burned as she digested Eleanor's words. "I don't give a shit what you've risked, and I'm not interested in anything you got to offer. I know what you nearly cost me. That's reason enough all on it's own."
Eleanor frowned. "What the hell are you talking about?" She asked candidly.
Realization dawned in Charles' eyes. He stared into the fury of Anne's face before glancing over at Jack briefly. His gaze settled back on Anne. "Jack..." Charles concluded firmly. "She's talking about Jack."
Anne shot Charles a dirty look but made no attempt to correct him.
Jack looked startled, momentarily baffled. Then his face softened, something sympathetic stirred in his features. But he made no move to try and comfort her or even address the issue. He knew better than to attempt to coddle her. Anne processed things in her own way.
Jack had been trying to talk Anne down with all the reasons this plan was good for Nassau, good for their new pirate republic. But he'd been reasoning with the wrong logic. She hadn't given a damn about their plans or their brave new world. She'd only been thinking about what Eleanor had almost taken from her, what she'd very nearly lost. Now, she sought blood to settle the debt.
Jack. It had always been about Jack.
Anne would have been fine with taking their share of the pearls and going into hiding with him. But he'd needed to come back, make a name for himself, leave a legacy. She'd called him crazy, cursed his stupidity, then she'd followed him straight into hell. She'd sworn to liberate him when she'd learned of his incarceration, and she'd bloody well succeeded. But only to come face to face with the same accursed woman who'd seen him put there in the first place. It was enough to make her see red. Anne just couldn't understand how either of them could even consider trusting this devious little wretch. Lies dripped from her lips like honey.
Though Eleanor's next words carried a firm and unyielding tone, they still came off sounding genuine. She straightened, lifting her chin and bracing herself against whatever came next. Her eyes shone with steely determination as she spoke. "I can't change what's already come and passed, but I can sure as fuck help hinder what's coming. I'll be damned if I'm going to let them take everything I've built without a fight."
Anne looked skeptical. "You brought them here." She growled. "Gave them the means to take Nassau's beach, forced us out and put a target on Charles' back."
Eleanor nodded, not bothering to deny any of it. It wouldn't do her any good anyhow. "I did."
"And now you expect us to trust you?" Anne seethed, her fingers twitching against the hilt of her blade.
Jack tensed, knowing Anne well enough to know where this was likely headed.
Charles hadn't overlooked the movement either. His face was blank, controlled. But he was watching Anne like he expected a detonation at any given moment, his muscles coiled in anticipation.
Eleanor stood firm. Staring into Anne's furious eyes with a troubled and serious expression, her patience waned just a little. "You don't have to trust me. You just have to think."
Anne's eyes narrowed and Jack chose that moment to intervene. "She's right, you know..." Jack said softly, coming to stand between Anne and Charles. "I don't like it any more than you do, but this is bigger than us, bigger than all of us. We have a chance to write history here. To make a name for ourselves, create something totally unique and completely extraordinary." He reasoned.
Anne continued to frown, the anger still riding her. "You know I don't give a damn about any of that." She hissed.
Jack nodded, looking somewhat apologetic about it. He stepped closer to her. "I know..." He said gently. "You're here because I am..." It was true, he knew it was. She wasn't in this fight because she wanted a new world, or because she cared about the creation of any legacy. She was in it because this was where he was, where he needed to be. He needed it, so she allowed it.
That knowledge warmed Jack's heart, filled him with an inexplicable wave of gratitude and affection. But it also left him feeling guilty, sorry that he'd dragged her into a fight he knew she had so little interest in.
Anne glowered up at Jack for another tense moment before looking away, averting her gaze to glare down at the hand she still had gripping at her blade. She didn't favor the notion of having this discussion at all, let alone in front of Charles and the cunt.
When she said nothing, Jack softly tossed her own words back at her, a part of him needing to know those words still rang true. "Partners till they put us in the ground, right?" He asked her gently, a small smile tugging at his lips as he nudged the back of her hand with his.
Anne's head snapped up at that. Her eyes burned into his, searching for any sign of sarcasm or insincerity. When she found nothing but an open and apologetic face, she huffed out an angry breath and resigned herself to the doomed folly of this venture. This ill-fated war meant too much to him. He was determined to have his name carried through the ages at almost any cost. He needed this, and she hadn't the right nor the heart to try and take it from him.
Anne grit her teeth, letting go of her weapon and adopting a slightly less threatening stance. All she could do now was try to make sure he lived long enough to see this mad plan through. "Yeah." She muttered sorely, turning from Jack to gesture bitterly towards Eleanor. "But she fucks us, and she dies."
"She fucks us, and I'll kill her myself." Charles growled, irritated by the notion that she seemed to believe that, in the face of such betrayal, he wouldn't be inclined to do the same.
"Oh please," Anne hissed. "you're about as likely to kill that cunt as I am to fuck her."
At that, Jack made a small sound of agreement that was met with a seething glare from Charles.
Eleanor simply arched a brow, crossing her arms over her chest. "Are we quite finished here?" She asked dryly.
"Quite." Jack conceded, eyeing Eleanor leerily. After a considering moment, he turned from her to face Charles, giving him a chiding look. "Do try to keep it in your pants, will you?" He pleaded, his face scrunching up in distaste.
Charles sneered. Recognizing the threat as diffused, he turned from the lot of them to drop onto the bed and rummage through his pocket for a smoke.
"Fuck off, Jack." Charles grunted as he retrieved a battered looking smoke from his pants and brought it to his lips, setting about lighting it and looking disinterested.
Jack rolled his eyes, a small bewildered smile playing on his lips as he shook his head resignedly. He turned to retrieve Anne and noticed the dark look she was casting in Eleanor's direction. Hoping to avoid any further conflict, he placed a hand on the small of Anne's back, tried to gently usher her from the hut.
"Come along, Anne." Jack said coaxingly.
Though Eleanor couldn't help but think it sounded more like a plea. Anne always had had quite the hold over Jack. Obviously that hadn't changed, Eleanor mused.
Anne shrugged off his offending hand and sent him a loaded look before turning on her heel and stalking from the hut. Just because she'd agreed to go along with this insanity, didn't mean she had to like it.
"Oh, come now, Anne." Jack called after her, his face scrunching up in haggard frustration as he moved to follow. "Be reasonable!" He cried, hurrying instinctively after her.
As he watched Jack scurry off after Anne, Charles stifled a small grin into the butt of his smoke. Poor Jack was going to have a hell of a time dealing with that one. The grin died slowly on his lips as the irony of the thought was not lost on him. His eyes flicked up to Eleanor, who was still standing by the bed, eyeing him with an intense and troubled expression.
Anne wasn't half as much trouble as this one.
After another quiet moment, Eleanor sighed. She sat down on the edge of the bed and looked him over with careful consideration. She watched the muscles in his forearm shift under his skin as he brought the cigar up to his lips to take another heady pull. He exhaled and the smoke streamed from his lungs, lazily billowing up around him before dispersing into the air above. She ignored the avid ache in her chest, the bawdy twitch of her lower abdomen. She focused instead on the problem at hand.
"Is she going to be a problem?" Eleanor asked, worry straining across her brow.
Charles frowned. He didn't want Eleanor getting any funny ideas. Jack would handle Anne, he always did. "No. Now go to sleep." Charles growled.
With that, he rolled over and stamped out his smoke on the bedside table. He then licked his thumb and forefinger and abruptly extinguished the flame on the candle beside him.
The hut fell dark and silent.
He turned his back to her, not wanting to think about the fact that she was going to be lain out beside him for the next few hours. Fucking her was one thing, it was something he could still assert a certain level of control over. But just sleeping beside her? That was a different story. It felt too intimate, too achingly familiar.
He was half tempted to just get up and leave, go wander the village until sunrise. But that too would make him feel weak. He wouldn't indulge the childish desire to flee. It would feel too much like a retreat, an open acknowledgment of the fact that she unsettled him. And that wasn't something he intended to share with her. He didn't want to give her the impression that she still held any power over him.
Even if she did, it wasn't something he was keen to have advertised.
So he stayed right where he was, stubbornly getting comfortable and doing his best to ignore her presence. Regardless of how he felt about it, sleep was a necessary obligation. They'd been up for nearly twenty-four hours already, and they needed whatever rest they could find before sunrise.
She considered trying to get more out of him, a clearer understanding of the situation. But she decided against it. If they got though tomorrow, then they'd worry about what came afterward. For now, it was a relatively moot point.
She sat there on the bed for another moment, staring idly at the back of his dark silhouette. Her frown deepened as she chewed absently on he bottom lip. He was stretched along the left of the bed, completely prone and seemingly unbothered by the notion of sharing the bed with her. And if he was so unperturbed by the idea, then she sure as hell wasn't about to let on that the idea did anything for her either.
She latched on to the sliver of irritation that came with his flippant dismissal, clung to it with an almost frantic desperation. If she could hang on to that feeling, then she wouldn't have to think about the fact that this could very well be the last night they spent breathing. The last night she spent this close to him, and she still hadn't said any of the things that needed saying. She wasn't even sure she could. Fear and pride effectively prevented her from even considering it.
Not that it really mattered, he'd probably never accept any of it even if she did.
Anxious, restless and exhausted, she moved to retrieve his dirty shirt from the corner and used it to clean up the mess still lingering between her thighs. With that finished, she wandered back over to the bed and crawled into the space beside him. When he'd climbed into the bed earlier, he'd lain down on top of the bed covering, not bothering to pull it back and get beneath it. This now prevented her from getting under it herself. For a moment, she considered simply trying to yank it out from under him. But ultimately she decided it wasn't worth the effort, it was a fairly hot night anyway.
Sighing, she set about removing her corset and tossing it to the floor. The stupid thing was far too restricting to try sleeping in. She left on the skirts and chemise, deciding that stripping down any further probably wasn't a good idea. She lay down next to him, facing his back.
She laid like that for what felt like forever, with her eyes fixed to the back of his head and a good foot of space laying between them. Amidst the chirp and buzz of nightly insects, she could hear him breathing, noticed when the sound slowed and evened out as he found sleep.
He could practically feel her eyes burning into the back of his skull. It was irritating, unsettling. What was she hoping to accomplish? Whatever it was, he wasn't interested in giving it to her. Determined to ignore her, he rolled onto his back and tossed an arm up over his head. Getting comfortable, he evened out out his breathing in the hopes that she'd leave him alone if she assumed he'd fallen asleep.
Eventually, he managed to find a state relatively close to actual sleep, a light doze on just this side of consciousness.
She listened to the steady rhythm of his breath, the easy and predictable pattern of it. It was almost cathartic, irrationally comforting. As she listened, the irritation she'd been attempting to cling to slipped away, got lost in a sea of calm that flowed through her with his quiet proximity. She was suddenly struck with the urge to touch him, to reach out and run her hand across his chest, tangle her legs with his and curl into the side of him.
That ridiculous urge brought reality screaming back into the moment. It hit her like a ton of bricks, a harsh and resounding slap to the face. Guilt flooded her chest, swirled in her gut, brutally reminding her of all she'd cast aside.
She tried to reason with herself, convince herself that such tender desires were pointless and unimportant. After all she'd done to him, she knew things between them could never go back to what they'd been. He'd even told her as much.
But the desire for contact was still there, her hands itching to simply rest against his skin. It wasn't a feeling that could be sated with logic or reason. It felt desperate and needy, unreasonably sentimental and saccharine.
Pathetic. Juvenile. Stupid.
Her fists clenched as her mind began to churn, dredging up thoughts and memories she'd rather not be reminded of.
As much as she'd tried to deny it, Charles had always been the one constant in her life, even when she hadn't wanted him to be. She'd pushed him away more times than she could count, tried to rid herself of the weakness he elicited from her. But no matter how hard she'd pushed, he'd always come back to her, and despite herself, she'd loved him for it. He'd never abandoned her.
But then she'd finally pushed too hard.
I killed him for you. Low and his crew. I killed them all to protect you...
She'd known it to be true. She'd known it when she'd sought him out after finding his letter in the square, and she'd known it when she'd locked that gate and left him to die. Yet still she'd striven to deny it, to convince herself his motives couldn't possibly have been so altruistic. It had been the only way she could justify her actions, do what she'd believed needed doing.
Her throat tightened with the memory, her chest constricting.
Now it all lay in ruins. Now she'd no more lies to hide behind. She finally understood what she had lost, what she'd taken from him in the process. It wasn't something she could give back, a thing of immeasurable value. And he had every right to hate her for it.
She hated herself for it.
Emotion welled in her throat and before she could think to stop herself, she'd drifted closer to him. Her trembling hand fluttered softly across his chest to press gingerly over the space above his heart. She could feel the solid beat of his heart under her hand, the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his breath.
Almost immediately, she felt fractionally calmer. Not much, but enough.
It was silly, and it made little sense, but she didn't question it. She was simply grateful for the distraction from her thoughts, relieved by the fact that he hadn't stirred with the touch of her hand. She wasn't sure how she would have explained herself had he borne witness to it.
She forced her breathing to slow and even out as she wrestled closed the lid on that tumultuous well of emotion. She wasn't sure where the hell such a powerful surge of sentiment had come from, but she'd be doing no one any favors by letting herself fall apart.
Eleanor Guthrie was not a woman who fell apart.
Distantly, for just a second, he thought he'd heard a sudden hitch in her breathing. But he made no move to acknowledge it. He wasn't even entirely certain he'd really heard anything at all. And for the next few quiet moments, his sleep-muddled brain tried to discern whether or not he'd imagined the sound all together.
But then he'd felt it. Her hand lay across his chest, her feather light touch dragging him from his semi-conscious state. He almost stiffened, almost turned away from her touch. But something about the way she kept her distance, her touch light and wary, stopped him. It convinced him to remain quiet and still, his breath even.
He listened closely as she loosed a softly shuddering breath before quietly steadying herself, and something resembling sympathy welled in his chest. He knew she didn't deserve it but there it was, regardless. It was vexing, because he understood that tenderness to be little more than a manifestation of his weakness for her. But even still, he didn't pull away. He allowed her to maintain that minute measure of contact.
She was still both the bane and boon of his very existence, and it was becoming more and more difficult to ignore.