Bound by the Buccaneer (Pirates of the Jolie Rouge) Read online

  Often at night, while Gaston slept, Frederica lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about Cassandra and that it was because of her that Cassandra had been on that ship. Why had it been her lot to be spared instead of her friend? It was a riddle without an answer, yet she asked herself time after time. Still, she was determined to turn her survivor’s guilt into something productive as she felt it gave her the fortitude to be strong and live her life to the fullest. Her friend’s death made her vow to help others whenever possible and to try to prevent innocents from being slaughtered for their gold or their navigational charts, or even their medicine.

  She moved to the next bed and pressed a cool compress to the restless man’s head. He jerked at her touch, said something unintelligible then relaxed back into slumber.

  “It’s alright. Rest easy,” she said, rearranging the cloth on his head.

  While she wasn’t too pious to embrace the pirate life, she did pride herself in serving as a tempering presence—a force of some good in the light of much that was dark. She liked to think the men on their crew were of a higher moral fiber than other pirates, but underneath that hope was the thinly veiled knowledge that this was probably wishful thinking on her part.

  Turning her attention to the semi-conscious man in the next bed she took his pulse. It was weak but steady. With a rag she bathed his forehead with cool water. When he did not respond she let go a big breath. Her gut told her this was a bad sign.

  After all treatments had been given, she wiped her hands on her skirts, told the men she would be back to check on them later, and headed above deck for her lesson with Hatch.

  * * *

  Gaston scarcely noticed the seagulls squawking noisily overhead as he paced the deck of his beloved ship, the Ocean’s Knave. Taking a deep breath, he inhaled the brisk salty air. This always bolstered his spirits, and with the concerns he had pressing on his mind today, he could use a boost.

  “Capt’n.” a member of the crew saluted him.

  Gaston nodded in return. A young man bumped into him as he trudged backward with his mop, swabbing the deck. “Sorry, Capt’n. Didn’t see ya thar.”

  “As you were,” Gaston told him, moving out of the way. The vagabond crew milled around him, busily mending sails and checking their munitions in case they ran across trouble. It pleased him to see them hard at work as he took great pride in his leadership capabilities and knew that a tightly-run ship reflected well on him.

  Arriving on the aft deck, he was surprised to find Frederica in the company of Hatch, his longtime friend and compatriot. The bald man was insanely tall—over seven feet—he stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his perpetual scowl firmly entrenched on his tattooed face. His ebony skin appeared to be stretched to its capacity over his enormously sculpted, bulging muscles, and he wore only a pair of worn out britches. The dark greenish tattoos that covered his entire body, served to intimidate most people, which Gaston assumed was their purpose.

  When Gaston realized what Hatch and Frederica were doing, his eyes widened involuntarily and it took all of his self-restraint not to intervene. Instead, he took a few steps back in hopes that he could observe them without them noticing.

  Frederica closed one eye, took aim, and threw a knife twenty feet in front of her.

  “How’s that?” she asked. Her intended target was an old barrel, but the knife hit one of the metal rings round the barrel and clattered to the deck.

  Hatch barked a few stilted orders. Frederica nodded and strode over to fetch the knife.

  Gaston’s first reaction was to put a stop to this, the way a parent would take matchsticks away from a small child, but he held himself back. More because he trusted Hatch in all matters than because he wanted Frederica throwing knives.

  Hatch’s name was a derivative of the word “hatchet,” a moniker he had earned due to his remarkable ability to fell another human with his hatchet from forty yards or more. Hatch kept at least four of the weapons on him at all times, and he could often be found sharpening one of them.

  A member of the crew untangling some ropes came dangerously close to where Frederica was practicing her knife throwing. Hatch shouted, “Stay clear!”

  The man looked up unaware then saw Frederica aiming inches away from him. He jumped to the side hollering, “Me apologies, Miss.”

  Hatch scowled at the man. Gaston had no doubt Hatch had warned the men not to travel past his training area. An escaped slave, he’d learned that vigilance was a key to survival. A risk taker Hatch was not.

  Their complementary natures made Hatch and Gaston a good pair. Gaston was known not only for his skills as a Captain and a marauder, but also for his keen ability to make big risks pay off handsomely.

  Upon their first meeting, Gaston had saved Hatch from a band of men intent on sending him back to the owner of the sugar plantation where he’d been a slave. Over the years, the man had paid Gaston back by saving his life numerous times. Their bond was deep, spanning the years and the hardships they’d endured cementing their friendship, if one could call it that. For Gaston, Hatch felt more like a family member, though he’d never be so sentimental as to voice this opinion.

  Gazing at Frederica, he stifled a smirk. There was no doubting it—he had turned the English rose into a true pirate. When she’d prevailed upon him to bring her with him on the high seas, he’d taken it upon himself to teach her to use a sword. After an unsteady start, she began to improve her parrying skills rather dramatically, and now she was easily considered a fine swordswoman.

  As he observed them, Gaston saw that Hatch’s instructions were slowly sinking in. With each toss of the knife, Frederica’s technique improved.

  He studied the curve of her bosom as she bent over to retrieve a knife. His cock pressed hard against his pants. No matter how many times he took her, he would never be able to get his fill of her. No other woman had ever affected him like she did. She was a stunningly beautiful woman, with blue eyes so transparent they gave a man the illusion that he might see into her very soul.

  She wore blue ribbons threaded through her long, flowing, chestnut mane, and her masculine boots mixed with that incredibly flattering corset she wore gave her a wild, yet extremely sexy appeal. It puzzled him how the other men endured being around her without being able to have her, when he himself was driven mad with desire for her on a consistent basis.

  His immense attraction to her was likely the reason he even considered her proposal to rob other pirate vessels rather than preying on whatever meek ship they came across. But the more he considered her idea, the more positives he saw with it.

  Attacking other pirates had quickly made them the scourge of the pirate community. There were many ships sailing the seas who’d like to see his head on a pike.

  The thought of his head leaving his body made him uneasy, and Gaston tugged on his collar. Drawing himself up to his full height, he straightened his jacket and peered over the bow. They were heading toward a parlay he hoped would offer a solution to their problem.

  His mission was to convene with the commanders of several other ships in hopes that they could form an alliance and offer one another protection in addition to greater financial reward for all concerned. There was strength in numbers and he hoped the other captains would recognize the wisdom in forming a coalition in which fellow seamen had your backs. He would use his most persuasive arguments and trust he would be able to bring them aboard, so to speak.

  For, without an alliance, Gaston feared his luck would soon run out. A feeling of trepidation gripped him, and despite the sun’s scorching rays beating down on him, an eerie chill trilled down his back.

  Chapter Three

  When they were in port, Frederica liked to walk along the beach in the early morning. The night before, the Ocean’s Knave had anchored off the coast of Oyster Cay, a small port several hours southeast of Nassau in preparation for the meeting this afternoon.

  Frederica awoke before dawn and climbed down the ladder alongside
the ship into a rowboat which she took to shore. The water lapped softly against the side of the boat, and the fog slowly lifted, unveiling the island ahead of her. She loved being the first one to stir on the ship, the solitude of the silent morning with the exception of a few stray seagull cries. In these moments she felt as though the whole world was created for her to enjoy, and she took a moment to take in the beauty of the blue-green water that surrounded her and the beach with its sugary white sand.

  After basking in her surroundings for a short time, she beached her vessel and strolled up and down the shore, gathering interesting seashells for her collection and wishing she could take the thick, heavy air and raise it off her sagging shoulders. Her body drooped from the humidity, but her spirits remained high. She and Gaston finally had a plan to help protect their crew and soon they would be able to set sail again. She smiled at the prospect of new adventures.

  Hmm. In the distance someone was walking toward her. It was unusual for her to run into another person on her morning promenade. Get most pirates within throwing distance of a town with a tavern and some women and they’d stay up all night and sleep most of the day. Unless there was work to be done, which was not the case today. The crew’s work was on hold and their break would continue until Gaston’s meeting today.

  As the figure drew closer she could tell by his size and the color of his skin that it was Hatch. She’d never seen a more imposing man. She waved to him, and he waved back. When he came into earshot she called, “Greetings, my friend. What are you doing this hazy morning?”

  He smiled in greeting, his white teeth a stark contrast against his black skin. Frederica remembered the first time she had seen Hatch. He’d scared her to death as he appeared when she and Gaston had been marooned on a beautiful island. They had only just finished making love when a skirmish broke out around them. The giant had jumped out from behind some bushes and she hadn’t known if he were friend or foe. His black skin shone in the sunlight and he had planted a hatchet directly into his opponent’s skull, hurling it from over thirty feet away.

  Later, Gaston explained that Hatch was one of his crew members and Frederica learned she had no cause to be frightened of the enormous man who had such proficiency with a hatchet. But she would never forget her initial terror at watching him in battle. Over time she had grown fond of Hatch, and though she knew he’d never harm her, she was always mindful of what a fierce warrior he was.

  “I make necklaces,” he said showing her several loops of shells he’d strung around his neck.

  “Oh, those are beautiful!” she said.

  He lifted one of the necklaces over his head and draped it around Frederica’s neck. She felt her eyes round as she held out the tiny shells to get a better view. “Oh Hatch, how lovely. How did you make it?”

  He dipped a hand in his pocket and pulled out a handful of small shells, the majority of them oval-shaped, round and smooth on one side, but when you flipped them over the brown and white striped shells had a horizontal opening that looked like two lips with a purple slash down the middle.

  “What kind of shells are these?” Frederica asked.

  “Pretty ones?” he said with a shrug.

  She laughed. “I love them. But how did you make a necklace from them?”

  He pulled a roll of fishing line from his other pocket. “Sit. I will show you.” He motioned to a sand dune and they went and sat down on it.

  Hatch showed her how to take a sharp needle, which had been pinned to his pants leg, and pierce the shell. Then he showed her how to thread the shell onto the fishing line.

  Frederica tried, but could not get the piercing at first. She broke the first shell she attempted to spear and made a face.

  Hatch laughed. “You can do it. Must practice, missy.”

  With a sigh Frederica picked up another one and tried again. “How did you learn to do this?” she asked.

  “My sister. She was always making a chain of this or that. Daisies, buttons, whatever she found.”

  “I never knew you had a sister, Hatch. Where is she now?”

  In a fluid gesture he pointed at the sky.

  “She is no longer with us? You mean she’s dead?” Frederica asked, not bothering to hide the concern in her voice.

  Hatch nodded slowly and continued to work with his shells.

  Frederica laid the shell and needle on the sand next to her and looked at him, “What happened to her?”

  He waved her question away. “Missy don’t need to concern herself with that.”

  She realized Hatch knew a lot about her, but she knew next to nothing about him, and she pressed on. “Tell me.”

  He rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. “You are not going to leave this alone?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “No, I’m not.”

  With a sigh, he began. “My sister and I were born on a sugar plantation.”

  “In Jamaica?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think Gaston mentioned that.”

  He nodded. “Our mother was a slave. She’d been captured somewhere in Africa and sent to Jamaica to work on a plantation. My father, he was an Arawak Indian, a tribe native to Jamaica. My mother fell in love with him when he came to barter with her owner.

  I do not think that my sister and I had same father. Her skin was lighter, but my mother never talked about it. When we were coming up I worked in the fields, and my sister, Hattie, she worked in the house. She was good with the white folks and they liked her.”

  Frederica nodded, encouraging him to continue.

  “A Spaniard and his wife owned the plantation until I was almost grown. Then the English conquered the island and all hell busted out. The Englishman who took over the plantation was an evil man. Our Spanish owner had always treated us well, but the new master was a bad man. He liked to abuse the slaves. We were used to much better care and this led to an uprising. I escaped, but my sister was killed.”

  Frederica’s heart clenched and sorrow welled up inside her. “Oh that’s terrible,” she said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Hatch nodded. “She was such a bright light, brought joy everywhere she went. A part of me died back there with her.”

  Frederica’s throat tightened. “What did you do after that?”

  “I kept running. In the mountains, inland, I found a better life with the Tainos Indian people. They welcomed me because of my Indian heritage and because they hated slavery. But after a couple of years life became too tame and I heard the call of the sea. I’d only heard of it, I’d never seen the ocean, but the tales of pirates and the fortunes they could amass in a short amount of time lured me to Port Royale, where I met Capt’n Galette.”

  Wanting to cheer him up, Frederica laid a hand on his forearm. “That has been good fortune for us all.” She smiled warmly and went back to stringing shells. Anything to keep her mind off a sea full of pirates out for hers and Gaston’s blood.

  Chapter Four

  Gaston had planned the parlay in a sleepy little village at the mouth of Oyster Cay. It was a small port not far from Nassau. The town was not much to speak of, which made it perfect for Gaston’s summit with the three other ship’s captains. The small population of Oyster Cay made it less likely for word to leak out about his planned alliance than if they were to have met in Nassau. In addition, he didn’t relish the idea of bumping into some of the pirates he and his men had previously crossed.

  It was nearing noon, and the plan was for Hatch to accompany Gaston to the meet, which was to be held in a back room in the local inn. Gaston had pre-arranged a luncheon for their guests.

  Gaston dressed in his finest navy and gold brocade jacket, which he accentuated with his usual hat with the purple plume. Borrowing Frederica’s small mirror, he approved the final picture and bent to kiss her.

  “Can I go into town for some shopping?” she asked and he thought for the millionth time how glad he was they were pirates. They both shared a taste for expensive things they never w
ould have been able to afford had he been a regular sailor or laborer.

  “We shall see, my dear. Let me first return with a report from our meeting. Then we will determine how we will proceed.”

  “Dinner, then? In town?” She pouted. He could see from her reaction that she wanted to accompany him to the meeting, but he knew her presence would only serve as a distraction.

  Weary, he sighed. “I fear it is too early in the game for me to make any promises. Now I must be off.” He touched her affectionately on the chin and bid her farewell.

  * * *

  The meeting took place in a back room of the Lucky Sloop, an establishment that boasted both an inn and a tavern. Gaston had hoped he and Hatch would be the first to arrive, but to his consternation when he was shown into the room designated for the meet, the others were already there.

  “Ah, Gaston Galette,” said Miles Appling, a blond man who appeared to be the leader of the group, proffering his hand and clapping Gaston on the shoulder. “It has been a long time.”

  “Too long,” Gaston agreed embracing his old friend, and captain of the Independence. Appling was of a similar age as Gaston, well-dressed, and was similarly educated. He and Gaston had served under a crusty Captain Mosely when they had both been young sailors. Seeing him now, it galled Gaston to admit that his friend was also quite handsome. His cornflower blue eyes and wheat-colored hair, a sporting girl’s dream, weren’t often seen in these parts. Accustomed to being the most attractive man in any room, Gaston eyed Appling’s conservative wardrobe and consoled himself by noting that Appling’s style was plebian to say the least. He sniffed and turned his attention to the others.

  “This is Edward Chatham, captain of the Volusia,” Appling indicated the tall, lanky dark-haired man.

  “Pleasure to meet you, sir. I’ve heard many tales of your adventures,” Chatham practically fell over himself rushing to shake Gaston’s hand. The lad must have been in his mid-twenties, a decade younger than Appling and Gaston. While he seemed green, Gaston reminded himself that he would have behaved similarly at the man’s age. There were positives to Chatham’s youth—namely enthusiasm and energy. With the right men around to guide him, he would suit their purpose, so long as he wasn’t a fool.