Kit Black (6 page)

My, God, he was wealthy. And all this would be his someday. I wondered if he cared. If he even thought about his good fortune. How ridiculous I must have looked to him two years ago. How disgusting and poor. It made me shudder to think of it, of his telling me to take a bath. As if I didn't know what I was to him. I wondered what his son looked like. Small, dark, and full of mischief like Sandrine was, or tall, well built, and tawny like Armand?

A sound startled me. I looked up to see him standing there, his hair silvered by the moon. It was too dark to read the expression on his face. I hastily got to my feet, but he blocked the door and I found myself with my back to the wall like a cornered animal. I wanted to tell him to go away, to leave me alone. I wanted to ask him to kiss me, to touch me as I had dreamed of his doing.

It took him two steps to cross the space, take me in his arms, and press his open mouth to mine. He pushed me up against the wall, his hard thigh wedged between my trembling legs. The mere touch of his fingers on my arms caused me to quiver, heat and desire suffusing my body. He lifted me above him, so that he had to bend his head back into the kiss, and so that I straddled his hard thigh. It was strange that he wanted that. To be beneath me. Strange and so beautiful.

The kiss seemed to build like a fire: a spark, a trickle of smoke, a finger of flame, and then a raging fire that threatened to consume us both. I wrapped my arms around his wide shoulders, burying my fingers in the thick locks of hair at the back of his neck. It wasn't until his hand cupped my bare breast, which had somehow escaped my bodice, that I realized what we were doing. I found the strength to tear myself away, to push at his hard chest with all the grit I had, just to get him away from me. I almost tumbled over as he released his hold. I had to use the wall to support myself. I could hardly draw a complete breath.

“Why are you pushing me away?” he had the nerve to ask.

“What?”

“You seemed to be enjoying that.” His shaky fingers ran through his hair. He was visibly shaken.

“How can you be so cruel?” my voice cracked and strained, low enough that others in the gardens would not hear us. I touched my swollen lip. Blood came away on my white satin glove.

“Me? Cruel? And you don't call coming here and flaunting yourself with your pirate lover cruel?”

I was shocked by his words. “I didn't flaunt myself, I had no idea that you lived here.”

“I don't live here. This is my father's home.”

“I don't care who lives here! I want nothing more than to leave, and if you will step aside I will do just that.”

“What is he to you?”

“Who?”

“Don't be obtuse. I meant Jean Laffite. Are you sleeping with him, Kita? Is that how you finally got your fine ship?”

I launched myself at him. I'd have scratched his eyes out if I'd had any fingernails. He grabbed me by both wrists. I was a strong woman, far stronger than most, but no match for him. His fingers dug into my forearms, his arms locked like steel bars.

“Calm down,” he said.

“Me? You're the one who started this. You're the one making accusations. You're the one who accused me of sleeping around to get my own ship.”

“Seems logical knowing you.”

“God, how I hate you! As if you have any right to accuse me of anything, you rutting pig.” I tried to kick at his shins.

“I offered you a home once. I would have given you anything.”

“Under your wife's nose. Your beautiful, sweet wife. The mother of your son.”

He had the grace to wince.

“Let me go.”

“If you will speak to me. If you will let me speak to you, calmly and rationally.”

“I can't be rational. You make me feel insane.”

He jerked me against his chest. “You do the same to me, Kit Black. For two years, not a day has gone by that I have not thought about you. I have dreamt of you. I have paced the floor wondering where you were, if you were well, if you were even alive. And then I meet you and you can't even bring yourself to look into my eyes.” He went on, and I could feel his breath, hot against my ear. “I was starting to accept that I had lost you forever, that I could finally forget and let the past lie buried. I looked up and there you were. Do you know that I looked for you everywhere? In crowds? Every time I see a pair of blue eyes, it paralyzes me. I went back to Ajaccio and looked for you. I even searched for you at sea. Miles from nowhere and going nowhere, expecting to see you combing your hair and singing to me like an Armandine on the rocks.”

“I sing like shit.”

He gave a scornful laugh.

“I think you ought to think about your wife.”

“I have tried. God knows I have. I should have gone against their wishes, I should have hurt her then. It would have been easier. You're right to hate me, Kita.”

I wanted to comfort him. What did I know of society? What did I know of duty to one's father? I was of a completely different class. I did not understand him or his pain. He did not understand me or mine. All I knew was that I wanted nothing of his pampered life. I wanted no part in hurting his wife.

“Let me go, Armand. You're hurting me.”

He loosed his grip immediately, stepping back from me. “I'm sorry. I am so sorry for hurting you. I am sorry for what I said, but I am not sorry that I kissed you. I will not apologize for that.”

“If I had let you, you'd have taken me against that wall. And it would not have mattered, because I am nothing to you but a whore.”

“That is not true.”

“That is what I see as true, Armand Etienne Dupuis. It is my truth.”

“I love you,” he said softly.

That took the wind out of my bloody sails.

“I love you. Nothing will change that.”

I never thought to hear those words from anyone, let alone him. I heard his wife calling him then, her tone lilting, amused, as if he were playing a game with her, a game of hide and seek.

“Armand?
Mon coeur?
Armand?”

“Go to her,” I hissed, urging him with a small shove. “I'll stay here and leave later. No one will know we were together.”

He nodded. “Kita, I…”

“Just go.”

“Thank you.”

“I don't want your thanks. I'm protecting her, not you.”

He sighed and reached out to touch my cheek with the backs of his fingers. I didn't back away from his touch. I just closed my eyes, feeling the tears thicken my throat.

“Armand?” Sandrine called again.

He ducked out of the small structure.

“There you are,
mon coeur
. What have you been doing? We have to get upstairs. The nurse will have fed the baby by now, but he doesn't like sleeping alone. Come, he only calms down in your arms. I do so hate to be stuck up there forever, when everyone else is having fun.”

“You go and have fun. I will see to him.”

“Thank you,
mon coeur
. Why were you out here?”

“I was hot and stiff. I needed to relax.”

“Your friend, the handsome dark haired man was looking for that strange girl. For a moment, I wondered if she might be with you. Isn't that ridiculous of me?”

“Totally. Let's not have Yves wait any longer.”

“Did you think she was beautiful, Armand? Everyone was looking at her and talking. She was so large for a woman. I like narrow shoulders far better on a lady, and she walks like a boy.”

I did not listen to his reply.

***

The next morning, Jean caught me crying. I was polishing Armand's sword, debating on returning it to him. I had mulled it over all night while I relived that kiss, those harsh words he had uttered to me.

“I wondered where you had disappeared to last night, Kit.”

I brushed away the tears with the back of my hand, trying to hide the sword beneath the polishing cloth.

“He gave you that, did he?”

“Yes. I didn't steal it. We knew each other in Ajaccio. It was not a long relationship.”

“Yet, he gave you that. He adored his
grandpere
, Kit. That sword meant the world to him.”

I swallowed hard. Oh, just what I needed to hear. “I'm thinking about giving it back.”

“Don't do it. Did you love him? “

“I don't think that's any of your concern.”

Jean sat beside me, lifting his face to the sun. “He was always a handsome devil. A little on the shy side, though.”

“The shy side,” I scoffed. “Ha!”

“Yes, he was. Rather overshadowed by his demanding and cold father. His brother could do no wrong, and frittered away every damned day of his life with his father's blessing.” Jean shook his head. “Armand joined the Navy to get away from them. His grandfather bought him the commission before his death. While he was at sea, his mother died of a heart ailment. They tried to blame that misfortune on him, too. His leaving overset her. He's not the hardhearted aristocrat you believe him to be, Kit. And he married Sandrine because it was expected of him.”

“I understand that.” I sighed. “Will he go back to it? To the Navy?”

“When the baby's a little older, he probably will. Sandrine is unhappy about it. With the rumors of war, though, he may have to go sooner than he thinks.”

“I hope I never see him again.”

Jean laughed. “I see right through the bitter show of bravado, Lady Pirate. He gave me something to give to you.” He held up a sealed missive.

I looked at the rather awful black script and shook my head.

“Take it.”

I took it, but I did not intend to read it.

“You're being very stubborn.”

“I have to be. Did you come here to discuss business, or matters of the heart? I wanted to discuss Greece. Would it be possible to winter there?
The Dark Jewel
needs some work done on her. I hear the Greek ship builders are better than anyone.”

“Yes, I think that would be possible. I know a woman in Greece I'd love to see again. Her hips are wide, and her bre—”

“I got your point,” I interrupted him. “Wide hips, eh? I suppose those are better on a female than wide shoulders.” I was still stinging from Sandrine's comment.

“If it pleases you, I will meet you there. I have to stop in Africa first. I have business there.”

“I wish I could change your mind about the slave trade.”

“It's a business like any other, my dear. And it's far too lucrative to give up.”

After he left, I dropped Armand's letter into the sea and watched the water swallow it down.

Chapter 4

On the way back from Greece, I experienced my first run of bad luck as a privateer. My crew became ill with typhoid and I lost ten good men. I became ill myself, but fortunately not with typhus. Roger was forced to nurse me for weeks, while Terry took over my duties.

I was still weak and tired when we pulled into Barataria with our cargo of Italian marble earmarked for one of Jean's villas. It was a good month of rest and decent food until we could set out for Amsterdam to trade fruit for tulip bulbs, of all things. I was becoming quite the little errand girl for Jean.

I was writing in my journal, when Terry knocked on my cabin door.

“We've picked up a man overboard, Captain Kit. A Frenchman from a ship called
L'Esprit.
”

“How is he?”

“He's well, all things considered. He has burns to his feet and hands. They were attacked by a British ship that was flying under French colors. A captain by the name of Wardman. I've heard of him. They say he's a right weasel.”

“I'll talk to him.”

The man's name was Pierre. He had survived eight hours of swimming in the Atlantic. Our ship's doctor wondered if he might lose one of his feet.

“You've nine lives, lad.”

“Yes, sir, I mean, ma'am. I'm very hungry.”

“We'll feed you when your fever is down. What happened?”

He explained that he had jumped after the ship was set ablaze. Most of the men were dead by then.

“Did your Captain die?”

“They took him. They wanted to interrogate him, I'd expect. Captain Dupuis was a fine man, ma'am.”

My heart leapt in my chest.

***

“You want to do what?” Roger yelled. “Board a British war ship?”

“We'll do it at night. I'm sure they're docked not far from here. They'll have sustained a lot of damage, according to Pierre. I know we can do it.”

“It's insane. Armand is likely dead, lass. They'll have tortured him or—”

“I have to try, Roger. I have to save him.”

“Strange thing to do for someone you supposedly hate.”

We found the English ship docked just off the coast. Most of the crew was drunk, including the night watch. They were easily taken.

“Find the prisoner,” I tried not to let my voice quaver as I said it. I prayed that he wasn't dead.

I don't think that Captain Wardman expected to be awakened by a masked woman holding the tip of her sword to his exposed privates. He was on his back in bed, a drunken frowsy doxy curled up beside him.

“Jesus,” he gasped. He tried to sit up and then thought better of it.

“No, not Jesus. My name is Kit Black. And if you move, Captain Wardman,” I lifted his flaccid penis with the tip of my sword, “I'll cut it off.” A little trickle of blood flowed down into his pubic hair.

At the sound of his scream, the doxy beside him awoke. She pulled the blankets up as far as she could and began to emit a high-pitched wail.

“Get out of here,” I told her. “He wasn't even worth it. He's got the smallest manhood I've ever seen.”

The whore just picked up her clothes and ran.

“Let me dress,” Captain Wardman pleaded.

“I think not. I plan to parade you out in front of what's left of your men.”

His Adam's apple bobbed up and down in his skinny neck. “Why are you doing this? You have broken all the rules of engagement. We are a docked ship.”

“You broke the rules of engagement when you sailed under French colors to trick
L'Esprit du Mer
.”

He swallowed hard.

“Party's over, Captain.” I moved the sword, allowing him enough inches to rise to his feet. “Slowly, now. We're going to the deck.”

“You are an unnatural female,” he muttered.

I poked him in his skinny buttocks, drawing more blood, and making him squeal.

“Move.”

The flogging technique is referred to as Moses Law. A shirtless man is given forty lashes, minus one. The name came from the number of lashes that Christ received from King Herod as related in the bible. It rarely results in death if the ship's surgeon is allowed to treat the wounds directly following the beating.

Armand had been given at least that many lashes with a whip dipped in tar and studded with musket balls. A vinegar and salt bath had followed to add further punishment. He smelled as if he'd been pickled. Add these insults to the musket ball that had grazed his temple during the battle and a deep cut to his thigh, and the man was lucky to be alive at all. The ship's surgeon told me later that the salt and vinegar was a blessing. It tended to have an antiseptic effect.

Roger and Terry supported Armand's lifeless body between them. His head was lolling on his shoulders. I tried not to think of anything but the blessing that he still lived. I would think about what might happen in the days to come later.

For now, I needed all the strength I could muster. Looking at him injured and helpless like that was making my stomach heave.

“He's near death, Kit.”

“Get him to the ship.”

“What's to be done about that one?” Terry asked, pointing to Wardman.

“We'll take him with us. Do we have a whip?”

“No. You said that's barbaric, Kit.”

“I've changed my mind. Let's borrow his, shall we? Get it,” I nodded at another of my crew.

“Yes, ma'am.”

I looked over at Wardman. He was pissing himself. The coward.

***

My men threw the body of the man I had killed overboard on the same night I waited for the man I loved to die.

Nelson, the ship surgeon, a man I did not completely trust due to his penchant for rum and the bleeding cup, did little to assuage my fears. He was waiting for me outside my cabin where I'd had Armand taken.

“He's been in this condition for a few days, Captain.” He recited off the list of Armand's injuries: the damage to his back from the whip, a musket ball crease to his temple, a dislocated shoulder and a cut to his thigh, which had appeared bad at first because of the amount of blood that had soaked his breeches, but now seemed to be not so deep as feared. The threat of infection was there, but Nelson was most worried about Armand's lungs. “He doesn't sound good. I'm pretty certain he'll not see the night through.”

I closed my eyes and breathed deep. My vision seemed to blacken around the edges.

“I think we should bleed him.”

“You bleed him, and I'll have you thrown over board.”

“I'm the doctor here.”

“You tell me what to do to treat his wounds and Roger and I will do it.”

I had not seen Armand close up yet. Roger was still there, hovering over him. He lay face down in my bed, a sheet pulled up over his hips. I looked at his back, that beautiful back crossed now by cuts and bruised flesh, some of them black and puckered. I remembered the feel of his smooth, tanned flesh beneath my hands. I remembered how my fingers had splayed along the curve of his spine, the ridges of muscles that covered his ribs.

“My God, Roger,” I breathed.

“I've seen things like this before, Kit. He's a strong lad. He barely cried out when we set his shoulder.”

I sat down beside him, leaning in to look at his face, gaunt and so pale beneath a heavy shadow of beard. A gasp of wonder caught in my throat as I saw the medallion he wore around his neck on a simple leather thong. My father's grinning moon.

“He wouldn't let us cut it off. Said he'd kill us. We thought it best for his peace of mind to leave it be. I recognize it, lass.”

“Yes.” Tears blurred my vision. “You can leave us now, Roger. I'll stay with him.” I touched a strand of russet hair at the back of his neck. He'd cut it much shorter. The ends were matted with blood and sweat.

“Nelson says to keep putting the vinegar cloths over his back. He fights a bit when they go on. It burns something fierce.”

“You've had this done to you, Roger?”

“Aye, in the Navy, lass.”

I took his hand which lay beside his head on the pillow. His fingers curled around mine, an involuntary gesture, I'm certain. “Set a course for Nice. We'll take him to Jean's villa.”

His hand was gripping mine with extraordinary strength. I leaned in and kissed his fingers. It was hot and dry against my lips, the tiny creases of skin stained with his blood and dirt. “You'll live, my love. I swear it.”

I spent the night changing the bandages on his back, and listening to the rumble and rasp of his breathing become inexorably worse. The sheets clung to the sweaty contours of his buttocks and legs. Roger washed so many sheets and hung them out to dry; the ship must have looked more like a floating laundry. I took turns with Roger, placing the wet cloths over his back, now a mixture of turpentine and water. Wringing the cloths made our hands bleed, our muscles ache. It seemed a cool cloth would go on only to become hot and bloody a few seconds later.

I didn't see how he could live. Just the pain of the turpentine on his flesh was enough to kill him, I thought. At first, I had to straddle his hips just to get the cloths on him. He bucked and fought so much in his delirium, calling out things that must have had to do with the battle he'd fought with the English ship, calling after his men. He called out the name of his son a few times. And my name. After a time, he hadn't the strength to move, to fight us. It was hell trying to get water into him. He would cough and sputter afterward. He looked at me once when we rolled him over to check his thigh and give him water, his jade green eyes glazed and unfocussed. His parched lips moved as if to tell me something, but I could not understand what he said. After that, he did not open his eyes or speak again. Nelson said he was too weak. He would die by morning.

Yet, he did not die. He hung on to life all of the next day, too. Roger, Terry, and I kept up the endless task of keeping him cool. By nightfall, I could hardly see from exhaustion. My nostrils were full of the smell of blood and turpentine that permeated the small room. Even when I would go up on deck and swallow huge gulps of air into my lungs, the reek of illness and imminent death was there as if it had invaded my flesh as well.

He continued to cough. It was agony for him to breathe and horrible to hear. I would count his breaths. I'd watch him take an agonizing breath that made his shoulders shudder and his chest suck in, then I would await the next. If it did not come, I would slap his cheek to get him started again. Soon, I began to pray that he would die so that he would not suffer like that any more.

In the morning, Nelson was amazed that he had hung on another night despite the rattle in his lungs.

“The lad's a fighter,” Roger smiled, his voice proud.

The wounds on his back were oozing, but the blood seemed clear of infection. We began to apply alum to the wounds, to keep them clean and dry. Roger remarked that with the white powder all over him, he looked like something ready for the oven.

That night I fell asleep on the floor beside his bed, my legs folded under me, my head on the mattress. I awoke at dawn to the strange sensation of fingers tangled in my hair, the sound of sea birds, and the men calling out on the decks. I could not hear the rumble of his congested lungs. I closed my eyes again.
Don't be dead, Armand. Don't leave me. Not now.

My hand inched over to touch his arm. The skin was cool and clammy. The muscles beneath his skin bunched and flexed beneath my fingers. I lifted my head. He was peering at me with one misty green eye. I smiled at him.

“Kita?” he said, or rather croaked like a frog.

“Yes. It's me,” I pulled my hair out of the grasp of his fingers.

“Where am I?”

I got up on my aching, trembling knees. “On my ship.”

“
L'Esprit?
”

“She's gone. We saved one of your men. Pierre.”

He closed his eye. When he opened it again, a single tear escaped. “Don't leave me,” he managed to say.

“Don't worry, Armand Etienne Dupuis, I will not leave you.” I placed my hand against his cheek. It was cooler. His beard prickled the palm of my hand. “Go back to sleep. I shall be right here.”

***

His progress was slow, but steady after that day. By the time we were within days of Jean Laffite's villa, he had improved to the point where he could take my arm and walk on the deck of the ship. Some of the color had come back into his face, but he was still far too thin and gaunt, and he moved like an old man because of the stiffness in his back muscles. I think he longed for his old self again, but he did not speak of that or of his pain.

If I'd thought I loved him before, I realized it was nothing compared to the way I felt after having looked after his needs, spent hours of time in his company. I think it crystallized for me while he was still very ill, a short time after the crisis point had passed. He was sitting up in the bed at that point, though not for long periods, because it caused his back to ache. I was reading to him from
Candide
, a book by Voltaire from Roger's vast collection of books. I was struggling with it. I read well, but I was a little nervous of reading to him, and some of Voltaire's words confused me. I became frustrated after a particularly difficult passage and frowned, slamming the book shut. I found him smiling at me. He looked so beautiful, his hair dark against the white pillows, his shoulders still wide if not a little thinner. A more romantic figure I'd never seen with the linen bandages strapped around his body. His eyes were shining with love. It was so apparent that it made me want to burst into tears. Something I did a lot lately when I knew that I was alone.

I would miss him terribly when he went. More than I had before. It was different now. I had yearned for him before, but I had not really known who he was. I had helped to save his life. I had willed him to live. He had become my dear friend, not by light of that rescue, but from the things that had happened since. I was intimate with every part of his life now. We were joined with a bond stronger than the sexual encounter we'd once had. We were not lovers at this moment, but we loved each other in a way far more profound. I knew what he was thinking or needing just by looking into his eyes. It was a fact that would never change.