“The child will be sleeping,” Phillipe answered curtly, not attempting politeness, not caring for this black-haired stranger to intrude.
“Phillipe,” Alicia Mereno interjected, sliding her arm through her husband’s, “this is the first gentleman who has expressed a wish to see my darling boy. I am flattered.” She smiled alluringly at her husband who about to again say no, was distracted by a group of plantation owners seeking his immediate appearance at the card tables.
Her face flushing, Mrs Mereno conducted the Spanish gentleman up the stairs to the nursery, after Jesamiah had handed Rue his hat.
“Look after this for me,” he had said amiably in Spanish, muttering, quieter in English, “and keep sharp.”
Rue had frowned at him. They had awoken the snake, was that not enough? Ought they not be gone before the thing started spitting venom?
Seventeen
The child’s nurse, dozing in a chair, started guiltily awake as they entered. With a reprimand Alicia sent her away on the pretext of fetching her mistress a shawl. It was a long walk from the nursery to her bedchamber – the length of the house and a flight of stairs – would take at least ten minutes; fifteen or even twenty if the woman dawdled as she was sure to. Alicia had not met a servant yet who hurried.
“Well, you have found a lucky landing for your feet Arabella, my dear.” Jesamiah said, shedding the Spanish accent and folding his arms, leaning insolently against the closed door. “I wonder, does your husband know you were once a Port Royal harlot?”
“Of course he does not!” she snapped, hiding the anxiety that because of Jesamiah he may be about to find out. “And I would thank you to call me Alicia. I have not used Arabella these past many years.”
“Not since you married your first rich conquest, eh?”
She tilted her head, chin defiant. “What of it? He was an old man, I gave him the son he longed for and I brought spring into his life.”
“And his bed I warrant. Poor beggar. What did he die of? Exhaustion, or the pox?”
The insult stung. Alicia crossed the few yards between them and slapped his face. “As I recall,” she said acidly, “you owe me for a night’s pleasure. You left in a hurry when the militia came searching for the crew of a pirate ship anchored in the harbour.”
He remembered it well. “We had to fight our way back aboard; escaped without our breeches.” He tapped his fingernail against two gold-capped teeth. “I had to get these fitted, thanks to that brawl – and because of the interruption it was only half a night of pleasure.” With his callused forefinger he stroked her cheek. “I suppose you would not be knowing who betrayed us?” He ran the finger lower, across the swell of her breasts, leaned closer, whispered, his voice huskier than usual, seductive, “Was it you, my pretty?”
Indignant, she slapped him again. “And why would I? Because you left in a hurry I never got paid!”
Smiling, Jesamiah produced a ribbon from his pocket, winding it around the gold coin intended for the child, tucked both deep into her cleavage. “Will this settle the debt?”
Stepping past her he walked to the inner room where the boy slept, gazed down at his nephew. Out of habit he fingered his earring, said over his shoulder in a lowered voice, “Do not get me wrong, sweetheart, I admire your enterprise. Good luck to you.”
Behind him, holding an oil lamp high to illuminate the dim-lit room, Alicia answered in a curt whisper. “I do not need or require your patronising luck, Jesamiah Acorne.”
“I am sure you do not. You seem to be managing quite well without it.”
His father’s grandson. Would Papa have been proud to know the name Mereno was to continue? Had he been proud of Phillipe? Of himself? Jesamiah did not know, it was his mother he had been close to not his father. Papa had spent his days supervising the plantation or the ships, had been away for months on end taking the tobacco to England. There had never been time for his boys. Jesamiah swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his dry throat. If Papa had loved his sons he had never demonstrated it. Was it so surprising Phillipe had been such an evil child? Jesamiah at least had his mother. Phillipe, nothing. No one.
Then again, he could have chosen to love his younger brother, not torture him.
Delicately, Jesamiah folded aside the top cover hiding part of the baby’s face. He had his grandfather’s nose and chin.
Unable to hold her anxiety any longer Alicia hissed, “Why are you here? To expose me?” Her head tilted upward, only the rise and fall of her bosom betrayed her agitation. “I can as easily endanger you. In these parts a pirate is treated with a great deal more contempt than a one-time, now very rich, whore.”
“I assure you I was unaware of your presence or your marriage. I came on business, nothing more.” Jesamiah looked directly at her, “Ensure your son grows to be a good man, Alicia. One bully in the family is quite sufficient.”
He walked past her into the stronger light of the outer room, the woman following, setting the lamp down on a table, her expression puzzled. “You know Phillipe?” she asked.
Interesting. She knew of whom he spoke when he talked of bullies.
“I know him. I’ve known him a long time. All my life in fact.” From the far side of the room, Jesamiah shrugged, looked directly at her. “Although he has not realised he knows me.” He spread his hands, apologetic, defiant. “I am his legitimate half-brother. I’m a Mereno, we share the same father.”
Her hand flying to her mouth, Alicia gasped. “I had no idea!”
“Nor would you.” Jesamiah tossed an ironic laugh into the air. “That makes you my sister-in-law. How quaint.”
She did not return his amusement. Did not truly know whether to believe him or not, but, yes, there was a similarity about the angle of the jaw, the slant of the eye. The same self-assured arrogance?
“He has never spoken of a brother.”
“We were not exactly friends.” In two strides Jesamiah crossed the room, stood before her his finger beneath her chin tipping it upward. Her eyes had the bluest sparkle. “You keep silent about my identity, Ma’am, and so shall I about yours. If not…” He let the implication fall like a dropped cannon ball.
He smelt of the sea. Of tar and hemp; of leather, molassed rum and masculine sweat. Of the carefree life she used to know, and occasionally missed. “You promised me the moon, Jesamiah, and I believed you would give it to me. I so loved you.”
“I’m a pirate, pirates never speak the truth. I thought you knew that.” His finger was still beneath her chin. She really was very beautiful. He tipped her head higher, dipped his own and put his lips to hers in an intimate kiss. One which she as passionately returned.
As he pressed his body against hers, she twined her arms around his neck, her breath quickening, needing him as much as he suddenly wanted her. Tugging at the lacings of her bodice he cursed beneath his breath to find tightly strapped whalebone stays penning her breasts. Unbuttoning his breeches, he pushed her against the door and lifted her skirts, fumbling beneath the layers of lace-edged, underpetticoats, running his hand up the silk of her stocking, over the tie of the garter and along the smoothness of her inner thigh. Her urgency for him to enter her as demanding and insistent as his own, he slid in easily, his hands on her buttocks, his mouth covering hers, silencing her gasp as he thrust hard. He was so ready it was done and finished quickly. The door rattled. Alicia squeaked, alarmed, her hands pushed him away to straighten her gown, her face flushing crimson.
Hastily making himself respectable, Jesamiah indicated she could move away from the door, said as the nurse entered, “You have a fine son,
Señora
.” He fell back into his role of a Spaniard. “I wish him the same fortune in life as his grandfather had.”
Smiling a polite goodnight at the nurse, he took the shawl and draping it around Alicia’s shoulders, gestured for her to precede him from the room. Surreptitiously patted her backside as she swept by.
Eighteen
The temptation to dance with Alicia was too great, although the lady herself appeared to be having second thoughts about Jesamiah. What she had done upstairs was beginning to sink in, and frighten her. Mischief, however, was rising in Jesamiah; to his surprise, he was enjoying himself. He had come here to do what? To commandeer a ship or to prove to himself he was no longer afraid of his brother? To take long overdue revenge? For the latter he could not have planned a more fitting retribution. How delicious to know something about this woman Phillipe did not, something that could destroy his pompous arrogance were it to be shouted to the world. Except, unless pressed, Jesamiah would hold his tongue. For the sake of the baby upstairs, not for Alicia. He would not trust her further than he could toss a cannon ball.
The subtle vengeance of cuckolding a man in his own home he discovered, even though he must keep the fact of it to himself, was proving to be sweeter than anything he could have devised. All those years of shame swept clean aside by one quick tumble against a bedroom wall!
After the first dance he felt Phillipe’s glare growing hotter on his back. Danced a second.
“I believe Sir, it would be appropriate for me to take a turn with my wife.” Phillipe tapped Jesamiah sharply on the shoulder and drew Alicia aside. “You have embarrassed me sufficiently, woman,” he hissed at her. “Do your duty to our guests.”
Jesamiah raised an eyebrow. Phillipe had not altered then, was still obnoxious. Had he moved on from forcing his victim to eat live beetles and dog shit? From twisting his brother’s arm so cruelly it had almost snapped? Wickedly, Jesamiah could not resist the opportunity to pour oil on Phillipe’s burning jealousy. It had all been jealousy. Jealousy of a new wife, jealousy of a new son.
Feigning bad English Jesamiah observed, “You take your turn in your wife whenever you please,
Señor
! I have only this one night to, how you say? Put my pleasure in her?” He almost roared aloud with laughter at Phillipe’s outraged response to the innuendo. Masked the chuckle by coughing behind his shielding hand. A mistake.
Phillipe saw only his eyes and recognition partially dawned. “I know you?” he queried, his voice acid with poison.
Not thinking beyond the opportunity of instant spite and self-preservation, Alicia blurted out: “He is your brother, Phillipe!”
Raising his chin slightly, Jesamiah narrowed his dark eyes and surveyed her look of triumph through half closed lashes. The bitch. He ought to have known.
Phillipe’s nostrils flared, the fury rising. The connection had fallen into place a moment before Alicia had announced the information. How had he not seen it? “You cur!” he snarled, his hand going to the dress sword at his hip. “How dare you come back here?”
Jesamiah was quicker, his fingers lashed out caught Phillipe’s wrist. “I would not suggest a confrontation, Brother. Not in front of all these guests with whom you wish to retain your reputation. Would it not be embarrassing for them to discover not only has your annoying little brother returned, but he is now a notorious pirate come to sample the Chesapeake’s riches?” He flicked a glance towards the swell of Alicia’s bosoms, smiled, his meaning plain.
“You dog!” Phillipe repeated, not missing the blush tinting his wife’s cheeks.
“Aye, that I am, but not as accomplished a dog as you. Shall we step outside? Finish this in private?”
“I have nothing to say to you, in private or public.”
“Good. Then you will not object to these people taking an increasing interest in us.” Jesamiah waved his hand towards the dancers swirling around them, their eyes and ears straining to hear the sharp exchange.
“One of them,” Phillipe answered, the anger shuddering through his body, “is the Governor of Virginia. He would be delighted to order your arrest.”
Stepping back a pace to enact calm for the sake of the observers, Jesamiah bowed graciously. “And I wonder how he would react if, upon my arrest, I were to inform him I use this estate as a convenient storehouse? As my brother you sell what I plunder.”
“He would never believe you.”
“Would he not? In or out of gaol I can organise stolen goods to be secreted here – not too deftly hidden. I know what blind dolts the local militia men are.”
Aware several couples had ceased dancing, Alicia took her husband’s arm, pleaded, “Phillipe, please.”
He tossed her touch away but saw sense. Snapped, “Remain here. Instruct the servants no one is to follow.” To Jesamiah, jeered, “You. Outside. With your sword.”
“My pleasure,” Jesamiah answered giving a slight, mocking bow of acceptance. He took Alicia’s hand kissed the palm, a lover’s token. “It was a delight to serve you again, I enjoyed coming.”
Embarrassed at her indiscretion and his double meaning, she snatched her hand away. Glowering, Phillipe strode out through the wide-flung doors on to the lawns beyond, his elongated shadow leaping and dancing in flickering light of the many smoking torches set into iron sconces.
Rue sidled up to Jesamiah. “
Qu’est-ce qui s’passe
? What is up?”
“Nothing I cannot handle. I would be obliged if you were to quietly fetch the men up to the jetty and make ready. We may need to leave here quick.” Jesamiah winked and took his hat from Rue, set it upon his head, sauntered lazily in Phillipe’s wake.
“Thank God for that,” Rue muttered as he turned aside, and keeping to the shadows, darted away towards the river, the hidden longboat, and the six crewmen waiting with it.
Phillipe was standing on the far lawn, his coat and waistcoat slung carelessly across a low wall, exposing his loose cotton shirt. His sword was drawn; a thin bladed rapier, more for show than fighting.
“I will not have you make a fool of me, nor my wife.”
Spreading his hands as if humbly agreeing, Jesamiah mocked, “You do adequately for yourself without my intrusion.” Did not bother removing his hat or coat, languidly slid his cutlass from its sheath, the grating sound of deadly steel slowly withdrawing, malevolent and ominous. Twice the weapon his brother held.
Phillipe raised his rapier, assumed the formal stance for fencing. “
En garde
!” he snarled, oblivious to the superiority of a cutlass, his pride making him slow to comprehend that Jesamiah, now an adult, was the better man.
As a boy Jesamiah had not known how to defend himself or how to fight. As a pirate he had no interest in play-acting. He had experienced blood and battle, had stared the grinning leer of death in the face. The real thing,
real
fear and danger, things that had eclipsed most of Phillipe’s petty jealousies into insignificance. Assessing the sharpness of the edge of his blade, Jesamiah contemptuously ran his thumb along it, scowled, sucked at the resulting ooze of blood. Raised his eyes, the memory of the terrors haunting him all these years had evaporated. The hurt would always remain as a scar that ached on an iced winter’s night, but the fear accompanying it had gone.
And the ghosts? Standing here on the lawn with his cutlass drawn, Jesamiah realised suddenly there were no ghosts to lay, that beyond his own mortified guilt they had never been disturbed. Graves were nothing but earth-covered holes in the ground. Nothing that happened to the corpse, a mere mouldering pile of flesh and bone, mattered. The important bit, the soul, once released from the shell of the body was answerable only to God. And as for the living? What more could Phillipe do to him beyond the humiliations he had once administered?
“Is this sensible?” Jesamiah drawled. “You can no longer make me do despicable things. I am not the child you used to taunt, a boy frightened of his older brother. I am no longer small and slow. I’ve grown bigger than you, Phillipe – all I see before me is a pitiful fop, about to piss his breeches.”
“If you think to alarm me then think again. You are nothing. Nothing beyond a debased pirate.”
A sneer lifted the side of Jesamiah’s mouth. “Nothing, eh? Yet my men call me Captain. I sail in my own vessel and go where I please, when I please. What have you done, eh? Pulled down a house and rebuilt it. Married a whore. Well how accomplished is that?”
“I am a respected gentleman. You and your kind are naught but thieving scum. I say again,
en garde
!”
Raising his cutlass, the blade glinting in the shifting light, Jesamiah’s leer was intimidating. “Oh, there’s more to being a pirate than thieving, Brother. You are forgetting, we murder as well. Since we last met I have learnt how to kill. You’ve not seen the bloody brutality of death, not seen a man after he’s been run through with a cutlass, trying to squeeze the gore of his guts back into his belly with his own hands, while his lifeblood seeps away between his fingers. I have Phillipe. I have.” He leant forward bending from the waist, brushed the heavy blade along the more delicate. The sound and the action, menacing. “I’ve been the one with the cutlass. I’ll show you how I do it if you like.”
Whether he did not believe him or was too proud to take notice, Phillipe made no answer; he circled, light on his feet, then choosing his moment moved fast, his rapier snapping out, the tip aiming for the flesh of the face. Jesamiah was quicker. He tilted his head back and caught the whipping blade with his own, neatly turning it aside. This was foolishness; a cutlass was not designed for fancy footwork and delicate parrying, it was a fighting weapon capable of hewing through anything from an opponent’s blade to flesh, muscle and bone. A killing weapon used by killers.
Backing away, Jesamiah lowered the tip of the blade to the ground. “It might surprise you, Phillipe, it certainly surprises me, I have no desire to fight you. I thought I had, I thought I wanted to kill you but I find I have nothing to prove to you, or myself. Nothing at all.” And he actually meant it.
Phillipe spat into the grass. “You are a disgrace to the name Mereno!”
Jesamiah shrugged. “That privilege is for you to boast alone, I’ve not traded on the name Mereno for many years. I go by the name Acorne now.” Added pedantically, “That’s Acorne with an ‘e’.” He took several steps backwards in the direction of the wall and the river, sheathed his cutlass. “I’ve grown up. How about you? Or are you still the same stinking lump of shit you ever were?”
For answer Phillipe lunged a feint to the right, was appalled by the speed with which Jesamiah stepped aside and re-drew his cutlass, at the power in the blade as one handed, with no apparent effort, he shattered the flimsy rapier.
“Get yourself a real weapon if you want to fight me. But nothing about you is real, is it? You are a fop and a fool. I thank you for reminding me what an arsehole you are and for the opportunity to renew my acquaintance with y’wife – Alicia you call her? I knew her in the whorehouses of Port Royal as Arabella.” He felt no pang of conscience, she had felt none when betraying him and he had warned her that confidences must be kept on both sides of the mast. It would not do for people to doubt the threat of a pirate.
Jesamiah gave a mocking nod of his head and kicking over the nearest torch, was gone, running into the sudden-shadowed darkness, jumping over the wall and across the lawn, ducking through the trees. Rue was waiting, anxious and impatient on the quarterdeck, topsails already set, the fore topsail aback to hold the ship steady. The six-man crew awaiting their captain’s orders. Jesamiah leapt aboard, yelled for the warps to be cut and the
Alicia Galley
was drifting into the current, gaining speed as the river claimed her. Jesamiah took the helm, Rue added his weight to hauling the heavy spars to bring the backed sail around, the men falling to the tasks with a will.
Phillipe was too far behind to do anything except stand on the jetty hurling abuse and bawling for men to come to his aid with muskets. Raising his hat in salute, Jesamiah called, “You’ve owed me a boat all these years now we’re square. An’ I’ll square this with you an’ all; I’ve not forgotten or forgiven what you did to me and what you made me do beside my mother’s grave. So you can think on this you bastard, I’ve just enjoyed the pleasure of emptying my seed into your wife’s belly. She’s the whore, Phillipe! Now, don’t that sound just grand?”
Rue said nothing. But his thoughts were of deadly cobras.