The Devil's Luck Ch. 03

"I'm certain I don't know at all, Mr George," she led him curtly away from this line of conversation, not wanting to follow where it led. Her head swam, however, with the possibility he'd introduced that she might be more than a convenient warm place for the man who'd left her reeling a short time ago.

George took her hint that she wished to sidestep this notion entirely, and he crossed the room to retrieve the bucket without broaching the matter further. Turning again for the door, he paused with his free hand on the latch to give her a knowing hint of a smile.

"Madam," he dismissed himself with a brief nod and what she thought might have been a bit of private laughter under his breath.

The doors shut behind him and Hannah was left alone to sift through the shattered pieces of her day.

Edmund Blackburn, that knave. She was not certain what sort of things pirates got up to all day, when they had time between drinking and thieving, but she wondered if testing the emotional fortitude of widows was one of them.

She'd slid from the captain's lap a mess of tears, overwhelmed by the entire set of circumstances leading up to that point. From him bringing her back into the stateroom, to her body's final shuddering forfeit of any claims she still had to respectability, the disparate events were a great swirling confusing ocean, intent on drowning her just to see her undone.

The man was nothing but trouble, she thought. Hannah had known that obeying his demands for her to sit on his lap would only end badly for her. And so they had.

What could she say of herself, behaving like that? She'd put up only the barest token of resistance to the press of his hands at her hips, his kiss...

Something clenched and fluttered in her belly as she remembered accepting the insistent strokes of his tongue into her mouth. The way he spoke to her, his voice thick with desire as he tasted her throat...

Stop it! Hannah admonished herself. Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! These thoughts will get you utterly nowhere!

But surely mere thoughts could not be so bad to entertain. For example, the thought of the captain sliding inside her, filling her up... She'd only just finished washing away the reminder of her wanton surrender from between her thighs, when now, she noticed, the folds of her sex were growing damp once again. The throbbing in her core was becoming an all too familiar sensation, now.

A memory floated up to the surface of her unladylike reverie, from a time years before when she'd been at a formal dinner with her father and several of his colleagues. As usual for Hannah, during these endless functions, nervous energy drew her tight like a bowstring. Without thought, she'd taken up her irritating habit of bouncing her crossed legs under the dining table, impatient for the meal to end so that she might retire again to her own pursuits.

On this day, however, her jouncing seemed to catch at her intimate areas in just such a way that before she knew what was happening, an alarming series of sensations burst up from between her thighs. She'd had to pretend that she'd almost choked on a mouthful of wine in order to play off the startled gasp that had ripped from her throat in front of that long table full of old men. Looking back now, the way some of them had strenuously ignored her for the remainder of the meal, she doubted how successful she'd been at concealing the nature of her outburst.

It had been a singular incident, to be written off as a peculiarity. At least until just under an hour ago.

That was what had caused her to burst into tears as the captain had let her go from his lap. Hannah knew in that moment exactly what the sensations she'd stumbled upon years ago at that dinner truly were. Her horror lay in the fact that it was Edmund Blackburn, scoundrel and pirate, who had given them to her.

His insistent pushing and working within her had severed some last tie she'd had to sanity, and her release found her inhaling infinity in great gulping breaths. To further her self-loathing at this surrender, she noted that she wasn't entirely certain whether the experience hadn't been spurred toward the finish even harder by the presence and observing eye of the crew member the captain had invited to watch her humiliation.

Hannah Collingwood was lost in this conflicting storm of what was right and what was pleasurable, and she could not, at this very moment, see any path to safety.

* * * *



She fussed about the stateroom late the next morning, bored and listless. The captain hadn't gone so far as to lock her in there, but he'd pointedly told her that if she left to wander the decks, he or Mr Till might not be immediately available to keep her out of trouble with the rest of the crew. This warning had so far proved as effective as any bolt or latch.

Hannah did want to seek out the cook, wherever he was, and find out what had become of Brigit. She hadn't seen the woman in two days now, and felt some manner of responsibility for her fate, as it was her employment of the maid that ultimately brought her into this situation. It was her hope that the poor girl's troubles extended only to having to help with the meals and the cleaning, and not to have to undergo the sort of trials and humiliations that had faced Hannah.

Her mind tried to stay on practical matters and away from memories of male hands on her that would make her heart race again.

How long, she wondered, would it be before her father or uncle decided that something was amiss and began their attempts to track her down? The journey from Bristol to Boston would have taken six weeks at the least, and probably longer. She'd overheard that navigator — Osbourne, was his name? — mentioning something about Nassau when he'd given his report to the captain, the latter's hard flesh lodged firmly between her thighs at the time.

My goodness, woman! Can you think of nothing else?

Nassau, it seemed was the next port The Devil's Luck intended to make, and Hannah had no idea how much longer than her original trip it would take for them to arrive there. And once they'd made it, how did she think she would manage to get word to her father, if she could find a way off the ship at all?

Richard Symes, her one doting parent, would not imagine anything to be amiss until it would likely be far too late to help. A rueful smile nudged at her lips as she thought about the man who wanted nothing but good things for her.

Hannah had never known her mother. Nora Symes had left this world the day she brought Hannah into it. A painting of her hung over one of the fireplaces in her father's house, and Hannah would stare at it as she matured, fascinated at the way her and her mother looked nearly alike. She would sometimes catch her father gazing at her with a look of regret in his eyes, doubtless remembering his lovely Nora. The man had never bothered to remarry.

It had been just the two of them as Hannah grew up, aside from the few servants and the like that helped keep the house in order. She had no siblings, and no close cousins — at least none that lived near enough to visit with any regularity. Because of this and, she suspected, because of her close resemblance to her late mother, Richard Symes had allowed her license to pursue nearly any interest that struck her fancy without trying to corral her the way she'd seen done with her peers.

Left to her own devices, Hannah found her love in books and papers. She could not simply travel on a whim and experience the world directly, but the words from men of every land and time in history could take her many places, at least in some sense. Her father didn't limit her areas of study, either, and gave her full access to anything in his extensive library. And with his connections at Parliament, he was able to bring home many new texts for her insatiable perusal.

In fact at one point, upon her eager pleading, he even hired a tutor to help her with the languages she wished to learn. Rarely was a father of their status so permissive, but Hannah remained glad to this day that he'd let her find her happiness where she would. When his colleagues would join him at the house, they were always astonished that Symes should have such a well-read and articulate daughter. He was even teased about how she would have served him better as a son. None of them knew how much those comments secretly pleased Hannah.

After Ashley had died, she'd returned to live with her father for sheer want of company. It was an odd situation. Because of her late husband's...preferences...Hannah had not exactly loved him the way it would usually be expected of a wife. She wore the black of mourning for the socially required year, but truly Ashley Collingwood had been somewhere between a friend and business partner to her. She did miss his presence about their house, but only in the way a person misses something they've grown accustomed to, and not with the grievous ache of the typical new widow.

Her father saw her though, mooning about the halls of his house. She'd filled her time again with study, as she'd done before the marriage, but now some sense of purpose had been taken from her. As the wife of Mr Collingwood, there had at least been a household to manage, and keeping affairs organised had been a way for her to feel useful. Richard Symes had seen that his daughter needed something more to fill her days, and this is how she'd found herself at the port, waiting to board The Mourning Dove, for all the good it had done her.

The Symes household had received a letter, addressed to her father, and coming from the Colonies of all places. He and Hannah were shocked to find that it was from her uncle Bertrand, and moreover that he'd been living in Boston these past ten years. The last time they'd heard anything from the man he'd been hired on at a monastery in Kingston, Jamaica to do translation work and handle other correspondence for the monks.

There had been complete silence from the man for the last decade, and none of the letters her father had sent were ever returned, nor did they receive replies. It had been profoundly sad, but the two of them had assumed that her uncle had lost his life somehow, and her father had shown no little grief over the loss of his beloved brother.

The letter from Boston was suspiciously lacking in details as to just how Bertrand Symes had come to live there, and why he'd left Jamaica at all. The most he would say was that he was now running a brewery with a partner, and that he was very glad to finally be able to write the two of them. What spurred her to action, though, was her uncle's mention that he'd suffered a broken arm in a fall, and was now having a bit of trouble getting things accomplished.

Hannah immediately leapt upon the idea that she should go to her uncle in the Colonies and be of whatever assistance he needed until he was fully recovered, and after for perhaps an indefinite amount of time. She'd reasoned with her father that this could be a singular opportunity for her to start a new life, in a new place — a world full of sights and experiences she's never seen.

It took her a while to convince him, as he didn't care for the idea of being left alone, but as she pressed him he'd come to see that this was an opportunity to provide her some relief from the listlessness she'd slipped into in the preceding months. The man knew her well, and his only desire was for her happiness. This chance at a different life, he was sure, would deliver that to his dear daughter Hannah, and he'd finally agreed to her request to travel.



* * * *



Having finally grown weary of spending so much time alone with her thoughts, Hannah had just screwed up the courage to peruse the spines of the books that stood on a modest single shelf on the port wall of the stateroom. Her fingers had barely begun to trace out the titles, her head cocked to read them vertically, when the captain entered through the double doors.

"A reader of books, are you, Mrs Collingwood?" he asked as she turned her face toward him, her fingers still on the books. The mocking tone in his voice irritated her.

"As a matter of fact, I am, Captain Blackburn." Very typical of him, she noted, to assume that she had no interest in things of that nature. She didn't know why it bothered her so much for men to assume of her what was usually the case with women.

Why do you care what he thinks of you at all? The man makes your pulse flutter a time or two and suddenly you worry about his opinions? Ridiculous!

"No need to bristle, Madam," he assured her as he took a seat in the same chair he'd occupied the previous day during that sordid affair with the navigator. "It was merely a curiosity, what with you handling my things just now." The amused expression had not left his face, though, as he stretched his legs to rest his feet on the table.

Hannah withdrew her fingers from the books and folded her hands at her waist, staring at him now. She held out the unreasonable hope that he would manage to keep his hands, and everything else for that matter, to himself today.

Is that what you want, Hannah? For him to leave you be?

She would have stamped her foot at the thought had she been alone. Instead she settled for a clenched jaw and an exhalation of air through her nostrils.

"So what sort of things do you read, Mrs Collingwood?" he tried again to nudge some conversation out of her, lacing his fingers behind his head, the picture of ease. She was not sure what he was about, taking this new, more polite tack with her. Was he trying to disarm her? It all seemed very suspicious. She didn't want to irritate him, however, so she decided to play along, for now.

"Oh, all manner of scholarly works, I should think. Histories, philosophy, classical works, the sciences... Really anything that came into my father's library." She'd almost said 'anatomy' as well, but wisely held that one back, imagining the way he was likely to pull the conversation upon hearing that subject.

"Hmm..." Blackburn mused, a look of contemplation replacing the earlier mischief on his face. "Your father...must be very indulgent with you...to allow you to study such things." His arms had moved to cross over his chest now, as he eyed her, preparing to glean what he could from her response. Hannah didn't know if she cared for the direction his questions were taking.

"I suppose he must," she allowed, attempting to be conservative with her words.

"If he loves you so much, why would he send you off to...Boston, was it? Does he not want his daughter with him in Bristol?"

Hannah found herself wanting to sidestep this question and not give him too much information about her, but there was no time to concoct a believable lie. She finally decided that it would make no difference now if he knew why she sailed for the Colonies, seeing that at this point she was likely to never make it there.

That last thought fell like a weight on her, but she pushed on to her answer. "My uncle is in Boston. I was to go there and be of assistance to him. He's had an injury and now he has a bit of trouble managing by himself. My father thought this could be a way for me to forget about my husband and begin a new life."

There. She'd revealed what she would. The only worse thing she could give up to him would be to tell him now how pleased she was with the way his breeches were pulled taut over his thighs.

You're impossible, Hannah Collingwood.

She watched him process what she'd said, but surprisingly, he went back to his questions about her studies. "You say you've read classical works?" he asked her, "Which ones?"

"Well," she faltered, put on the spot, "I suppose any number of authours come to mind. Horace, Ovid, Vergil..." Hannah wondered how any of this was relevant.

Blackburn's feet came down from the edge of the table in a swift motion at her answer, and he scooted his chair forward in interest. "Those are in Latin. You read Latin?" She did not care for the tense way he held his body now as he awaited her response.

"I do, Captain," she admitted reluctantly, taking a step back from him now, unsure as to where this was all going, "but I don't see why that would be so important for me here."

He rose to his feet, shoving the chair back several inches with the vigour of his movement. Striding to the same wall where the bookshelf was fixed, he moved to unlock a tiny cabinet door from which he produced a flattish wooden case about the length of his forearm and a hand span wide. Unlatching the case, he brought out several folded leaves of parchment and thrust them at her.

Hannah started back at his forceful brandishing of the papers, but he pressed her, his voice insistent.

"Can you tell me what's written in these?"

Her hand slowly moved to take the papers from him, all the while keeping her eyes on focused on his face with a sceptical lowering of her brows. Perhaps this might give her a way to bargain with him? Likely not; the man did ultimately hold power over her very life. Still, she decided to take the chance.

"I will if you leave off your scandalous treatment of me, Captain Blackburn."

Her sudden boldness brought a bark of laughter from the man, diffusing the tension that had built in him during his urgent desire for her to translate whatever was written on the parchments.

"You can have two days, Mrs Collingwood. I'll give you that long, my dear, but you can only expect a man to steel himself against a tempting beauty such as yourself for so long." His wide smile at these words made her cheeks colour. And he'd referred to her as a beauty.

Suppressing her inappropriate flush, she grudgingly took his bargain as the best she could probably expect to receive. She'd known he wouldn't give up on his advances entirely, and two days were better than no days, which is what she'd likely had before.

"Accepted," she nodded, clearing her throat, "Well. Then. Let us see what we can make of these."

Hannah thumbed open the topmost folded piece of paper and began to read, mumbling quietly to herself as she did her best to translate the compact hand that cramped the page.

"...my friend...last several years...daily into town...a seller of books..."

None of this seemed important or weighty in any way, and she couldn't imagine what interest it held for the captain of a pirate vessel. Still, she read on.

"...the monastery...word of God...slaves coming to...worried...plans to..."

Hanna's fingers tightened on the parchment and the pace of her heartbeat quickened as her eyes skipped the rest of the translation and went straight to the bottom.

What in God's name is afoot here?

The letter was signed simply: B.S.

As she'd been quietly turning the Latin sentences into English, preparing to give Blackburn a summary of the letter's contents, a nagging idea had tugged at her mind. The hand had looked distractingly familiar, especially the excessive flourishes on the ascenders, those letters like 'h' and 'd' that rose above the rest of the line. She'd just seen this same hand not very long ago, on the letter to her father from Boston.

B.S. was Bertrand Symes, her uncle. She was sure of it.

"Captain," she said in a clipped tone, folding the paper closed again, "these letters are from my uncle. What are they doing in your possession?" A part of her cringed at the demanding note in her voice, but urgency and suspicion drove the words out of her before she could temper them.

He'd been leaning forward on the balls of his feet, anxious to hear her translation, but at this question from her his eyes grew round and he snatched the papers back from her hands.

Hannah only had a moment to witness this change in his expression, however, as he immediately schooled himself back to his usual calm. Shoving the letters back in their wood case, he deposited the lot into the small cabinet he'd pulled them from and hastily locked its door again with the tiny key.