Chapter 10 : Take Heart

I cannot take in what is happening. I walk free in the streets of Tortuga towards the Anarkhia. Steven following. We have not spoken a word.

Marcellin let us leave. He demanded in payment for his generosity of spirit forty per cent of the income from the transaction on my person.

For myself, I still do not know who ordered this masquerade. The brother has kept the document to make sure that Steven honours his debt. He threatens to take the parchment to the Governor of the island if Steven does not return to Tortuga with his pieces of eight. He would become one of the most wanted pirates of the Caribbean and the continent.

I am in a state of shock. I am lucky to be alive and intact. Free, if we dismiss the fact that I am still destined to be sold to a rich merchant in Louisiana. And that I was a witness to the obscene scenes in the tavern before I made my way outside.

Cook was moving his enormous body frantically above a frail silhouette. I should have looked away. I did not do it. His partner was a man. This explains why the Irishman trusted him when he was in charge of accompanying me everywhere on the Anarkhia. I am not to his taste, and therefore safe by his side.

And that is not all. It takes more to shock me now. I have another atrocious image etched on my retina. The vision of Rotten Rick (he truly is) coupling with a girl who is probably younger than myself. I felt a wave of nausea submerge me. It was too much. I lowered my eyes. What else could I do?

At the corner of an alley-way, Steven grasps my arm and pushes me up against the wall of a modest dwelling.

"You are mad!" he cries. "you could have got us killed."

"I saved us, idiot!" I rage, pulling my shoulder back in order to free myself from his hold.

The effort is wasted as he is much stronger than me.

"You were lucky."

"You too."

Our ragged breaths cut into the oppressive silence.

"I know," he at last admits. "Even if Tortuga has calmed down and is no longer the freebooting capital, I would rather not show myself too much. And not show you either."

Stupid brigand. Has he not just admitted that he is wanted by the authorities?

A few minutes later, we board the Anarkhia. Jaime awaits me on deck.

"Still there?" grumbles the captain.

"Donde esta la sirena estoy yo."

I burst out laughing.

"Fucking Spaniard," Steven sighs.

After giving my new friend a smile, I go to the cabin. There is a flask of rum on the desk. I pick it up and swallow it in one gulp. It hurts. It warms. Mouth, throat, belly. I do not care. The pain brings me back to the present. The alcohol helps me to forget the horrors I have witnessed this evening. I want to bury it all.

"More," I demand throwing the flask to the Irishman as he comes into the room.

"Right-hand drawer," he says with a nod of his chin as he lights a small oil lamp.

Of course, I know full well that a bottle of liquor is hidden here; I had turned the cabin upside down. But I want him to serve me.

"Captain, do you not intend to haul aft the mizzen mast?"

He turns round, surprised and bursts out laughing.

"The mizzen sheet," he corrects me. Good.

He places two glasses on the table and fills them to the brim with the liquid which is as transparent as spring water. In one shot.

"More."

He smiles, serves me again and once again I knock it back.

"More."

He shakes his head. I pick up the bottle to pour some into my glass. Impossible. He has splayed his open hand over it to prevent me from filling it. Never mind. I pick up the bottle and take refuge on the bed. Two more sips. That is all I can take.

My vision blurs. Steven moves nearer me to retrieve the liquor which he places on the bedside table. And then he does something no-one has done for me for months. He moves forward tenderly. His puts his arms round my shoulders and back. He is gentle. Disinterested. He consoles me. For everything. For my exile, the kidnapping, the violence, the battle, John, the bawdy house and Marcellin. We share our pain and our bewilderment.

I nuzzle into his chest and his familiar smell tickles my nostrils. Now it is synonymous with support and comforting.

It has been such a long time since anyone took me in their arms. Lack of love is a suffering which is as powerful and devastating as a vile poison. I had not realised that I was wasting away for lack of physical contact. Exchange. Tenderness. Altruism.

Admittedly, Mother had never been warm with us. My sisters and I nevertheless found a way to survive by supporting each other. And some of the servants were not devoid of warm and friendly gestures towards us. And yes, there was Jérémiah who helped me to understand what sharing, embracing and cherishing meant. Simply loving.

He taught me sincere affection without the desire to possess. I could have been jealous and wanted him to belong to me alone. Refused that he should frequent anyone else during our relationship, whether man or woman. No. That was not how it worked.

We loved one another; of that I am deeply convinced. But we did not possess each other. We were free. He was freer than me, most unfortunately, due to the fact that he was a man. Besides, it would never have occurred to him to prevent me from acting as I wished. Much to the contrary, he wanted me to free myself from all the taboos that had been imposed. That I had imposed on myself.

Open mindedness is a talent. Beings either possess it or they do not. Some work on it and exploit it whereas others raise brick walls of judgement and decorum. Those walls become unsurmountable and result in suffering, lies, unsatisfaction, violence and hatred.

All through my life, I had been made to believe that my destiny was solely to be the wife of a man. How could I refuse this notion when it was drummed into me as the only truth? Living among aristocrats, free from want, was the most enviable choice.

"The poor are savages."

"We nobles possess much more than the rest of mankind, in riches and refinement."

"We are better than the others, because we are born of superior beings."

I can hardly believe that some people imagined that they were excused regarding death itself. The blinkers had but one objective: to reassure those that had docilely adopted this lifestyle. A cruel inheritance that we continue to drag along like a burden of lies and solitude.

Today, in his arms, I am no longer sure of anything. To abandon my certainties does not frighten me. The wall is crumbling. In any event, it was made of illusions.

I want him. I want him to want me. I move my leg forward. I do not feel anything. So I break free. His look is questioning; he is surprised that I have broken our embrace.

I remove my shirt, exposing my breasts for the second time that evening. Steven is shocked.

"That dolt must not be the last man to have touched me," I explain.

My fingers grasp his hand and place it on my hip. I slide the palm of my hand over his muscular torso, careful to avoid the wound on his belly which is healing.

I place my hip between his. This is it. He desires me. My tongue has only one aim: to taste him. The distance between our faces reduces slowly. When, at last, our mouths meet, sensations explode in my lower belly. His lips are both soft and firm. Like mine, they taste of liquor. When I open my mouth to slip my tongue into his, he moves back.

That is when I understand that this is his first kiss. Prostitutes do not do that sort of thing. Too intimate. I wait for him to move towards me again. One second, two seconds, three seconds. He grasps my hair and pushes his tongue between my teeth. Indeed, it is somewhat chaotic and wild, but I appreciate his ardour.

Then, without warning, he turns me over and lowers his breeches. I have to hold on to the edge of the bunk to stop myself from falling, lightheaded.

That is when I understand two things. Firstly, that he makes love in the same way as he eats. Badly. All that counts is that he satisfies his desire. He wants to attain orgasm as quickly as possible. And secondly, that he makes love in the same way as he makes war. Violently and with determination. Even if it means being wounded in battle. And as long as he has not obtained what he is fighting for, he will not stop.

I have to teach him, as Jérémiah taught me before. The problem is that if I speak to him, he will not listen. I must show him.

While he strives to lower my breeches, I roll to one side and move away from him.

"What are you doing?" he says angrily.

"I am not ready, Irishman. Look."

By way of explanation, I take hold of his fingers and slide them under my belt into my genitals. His arm moves unwittingly. Amusing. He was ready to mount me as he would a mare and now, he shows a form of reserve in not wanting to touch my wet genitalia.

"Can you feel it? Not yet."

He groans with pleasure. My way finally seems to suit him.

"Continue," I instruct him as I remove the last remnants of my pirate's garb. "Here."

I have dreamed of this. So often.

He obeys. Without ceasing, we lie down on the bunk. As usual, I come too fast, hanging on to his shoulder with one hand, the other rolled around his cock which is as hard as wood. Jérémiah would punish me by smacking my bottom. But Steven is fascinated by my spontaneous shaking.

"Are you a witch?" he asks me very seriously.

"Just a mermaid, according to Jaime."

His warm laughter rings out in the cabin.

"And now, are you ready?"

"Check."

One finger, two fingers. It is so good!

"So?"

I do not need to answer him. I sit up on the bed to undress him. I have already seen him bare-chested, but tonight it is different. He is more handsome than ever with all his scars which are lit up in the soft light of the oil lamp.

I sit astride his legs; I let go of his erect member which is straining against his belly and clasp the bottle of liquor.

I pour a shot into his mouth and another into mine, and a few drops onto his neck and chest.

"Now it is my turn to give you pleasure," I whisper against his earlobe.

My tongue explores his skin, following the scars and licking up the pearls of alcohol. First, those on his face, then a small mark on his throat, a bigger one in the hollow of his collar-bone, a scar on his chest.

"When you have healed, I will continue," I tease.

And Jérémiah used to say that I was incorrigible… I have overestimated the captain's patience. Using just the strength of his arms he manages to exchange our positions so that he is on me.

His eyes are burning with desire. His tongue caresses my bottom lip. I nibble his as a challenge. He leaves my mouth to concentrate on my breasts. He amuses himself, sucking on the tip of my nipple. His hot breath rebounds on my skin.

It is too much for him. He straightens up and penetrates me all of a sudden. I cannot hold back a moan. My back arches with pleasure. His languid backward and forward motion is delicious. Delicate. Gentle. Too gentle.

"Harder…" I plead.

He is hurt. I should not demand so much of him. To be honest, I do not care.

"I do not want to hurt you," he assures me, stroking my cheek with his thumb.

A mischievous smile. A shake of my head. I roll my legs around his hips and pull him in deeper into me.

"I demand more, captain."

"All right."

At last he is unchained. I am obliged to raise my arms so that my head does not hit the wood and I rock to the rhythm of his thrusts. It is good and it also hurts. This infernal rhythm put our bodies exhausted by the battle and the voyage to the test.

The Irishman comes inside me. His face convulses in ecstasy. How handsome he is! He abandons himself wholly to his orgasm before collapsing.

Breathless. Appeased. Happy.