Page 3 of Her Perfect Pirate
She turned to Sharkhead as he said this and was surprised to discover him looking directly at her.In the sunlight, Rebecca saw all the dazzling browns that colluded to make his irises look black as ebony.
As his eyes lingered, Rebecca felt his interest in her as surely as if he had grabbed her waist and hoisted her onto his lap.It lasted only a moment, yet it was all Rebecca needed to know, at last, which category to sort him into:
A man who wanted to fuck her—despite his better judgment.
The most dangerous kind of man of all.
Chapter Two
Chowmarkedthedaysof Captain Boukman’s absence in little slashes across the top of the logbook.As quartermaster, Chow was responsible for the ship in the captain’s absence: keeping records, tracking supplies, and maintaining order among the restless men.The pirate crew was a good one when they were sailing, with few disputes and even fewer acts of insubordination, but the longer they stayed in the little Fortune Island lagoon, the rowdier they became.On the captain’s fourth day away from the ship, Fearsome Fred poured rum over a boy’s head for some disrespect; the next night, Fred found a steaming bucket of shit dumped on his hammock.
Chow ordered everyone to swab the decks, even though they had only just done so, to keep away any further “harmless fun.”There was no such thing on a ship like theirs, not when he still heard the crew grumbling in hidden whispers about the captain’s decision to leave three of their mates behind in Grenada last month.
The captain had claimed the pirates failed to return to the ship before it sailed and therefore deserved to be deserted in the British-owned town.
The crew felt that the captain had retaliated because those three pirates had argued with him about the decision to go to Grenada in the first place.
Chow didn’t know who was right.He didn’t care who was right.He only wanted order on the ship so that they would be poised to sail as soon as they had a whiff of a slaver.When the decks were clean, he set everyone to rat catching in the hold.Then they inspected each line and sail and gun.By the captain’s eighth day away, Chow had ordered so much work that old de la Cruz convinced him they needed a day of rest.“The crew will fall ill with exhaustion if you keep us working like dogs in this heat.”
Chow was tempted to ignore the advice.In the course of his life, he had learned the value of hard work to distract from one’s inner demons.So, too, had he come to trust in a hierarchy with a clear leader, and there was no clearer demonstration of who was in charge than seeing who set the tasks and who followed them.
But in the almost-decade that he had been on theGhost, he had also learned to trust de la Cruz’s instincts.Reluctantly, he ordered everyone to observe the day as if it were the Sabbath, with no work except the necessary.
The crew made no complaints.De la Cruz was right about one thing: the day was hot, hotter than it had a right to be, and they all appreciated the chance to rig the sails into sunshades and loll about on the deck.Long Tale Lee took up his ropes, which he turned into intricate artwork, while the musicians set to fiddling.By the foremast, Liberty Johnson brought out his kit of needles and gunpowder ink to finish young Fuego de la Cruz’s tattoo.
Chow planned to stretch out on the quarterdeck with the book of folktales he had purchased at a market stall in Casablanca—until he saw Liberty Johnson wave the woman over.
Rebecca Smith.In her first few days on the ship, she had proved herself willing to help in any task.She caught on quickly to tying knots under Lee’s tutelage, so then the boys started teaching her how to climb the masts and manage the sails.She helped Cook prepare the mess, and in the evenings, she made sure every dish was clean before joining the men above deck to watch the sunset.The crew had already nicknamed her Ave Rebecca—a Catholic reference Chow didn’t completely understand—and invited her to sing along with their ballads.When Fred turned that rum over Pip’s head, she was the one to clean Pip off.
Chow knew he should be feeling easier about her presence on the ship.Instead, he felt more on edge.Captain Boukman, for all his good, was an unpredictable man.If the crew loved Rebecca Smith too much, he might decide she was a liability and send her ashore.Or he might decide she had to stay forever—and play some game to keep her with the crew even when she was ready to leave.
Whatever her fate on theGhostwould be, Chow found himself crossing the ship now to stop her from falling into Liberty’s trap.
“How is it done?”she was asking as Chow approached them.She had dropped to a crouch, and her skirts caught on her knees so that he could see her bare ankles leading to bare feet leading to bare toes.
Fuego held out his arm to display his almost-finished tattoo, an anchor sitting proudly atop his bicep muscle.Meanwhile, Liberty explained the process of dipping the needle in gunpowder ink and then poking it through the skin.
“It’s not for you,” Chow interrupted.
Rebecca looked up at him with amusement dancing across her dark eyes.“I didn’t see in the articles where it says that the quartermaster decides who gets gunpowder spots.”
“You’re still new.Better wait until you’re sure you want the pirate’s life.”
She rocked back on her heels.“I want it.”
Chow didn’t know if she was being argumentative or if she really was so foolish.She wasn’t a young woman who could mistake folly for adventure.If theGhostwere her best hope for escaping prostitution on Fortune Island, then fine; but he didn’t see how she could believe this was her destiny.
“It’s her body to do with as she likes,” Liberty Johnson said.His tone was free of innuendo, his eyes on his needles instead of her flesh.
Still, the mention of her body—the mention ofas she likes—sent an unwelcome thrill of desire into Chow’s core.
“And shelikesto get one like Fuego’s.”Eyes locked with Chow’s, Rebecca unbuttoned the front of her chemise and shrugged it off.
Suddenly, her shoulders—paler than brown, nuttier than white—shone in the sunlight.Their only adornment was the yellowed straps of her petticoat, which disappeared beneath the soft structure of her short stays.
Under all of which were her breasts.
But Chow wouldn’t think about her breasts.
