On a Lee Shore (31 page)

“A little west of north,” Valliere said, nodding to the binnacle. “That cloud to the nor-nor’east is above Grenada. If we’re not being pushed too far west by the currents, we should raise it day after tomorrow.”

Kit nodded. “I’ll take the tiller if you want to stand down,” he offered.

“I’m fine,” Valliere said. He lifted his face to the sun, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “Could anything be better than this?”

Kit laughed and headed for the galley to see if he could scrounge some breakfast and to consult with Pollack about their dwindling food supplies. He was happy enough to eat fish, but he knew that other men on the Africa demanded “proper” food—smoked pork or beef and rock hard biscuit.

“We’ll do maybe a week more,” the cook said. “But it won’t be long till our gums start getting soft. Don’t want that bright smile of yourn spoiled, do we, young Kit? Proper water we needs. And rum and lemons. Sovereign for scurvy, that punch is.”

“And it lifts the spirits,” Saunders confirmed when Kit consulted him half a glass later. “You’ve been at sea for long enough to know what scurvy does to a man, Kit. And Griffin is already weak. Get us to the Grenadines, give me some of the silver, and I’ll do the rest. I’ve never lost a man yet.”

“I pray to God we don’t,” Kit said. He hesitated a moment before asking his next question. “When we get sight of the Garnet—what then? Will Africa be able to overpower her? We have barely enough men to man one gun as well as sail the ship.”

“One gun can be enough with the right man to lay her,” Saunders pointed out. “But I doubt we’ll fight. Jago is just a sea robber—a dock rat that has moved up in the world. It is Griffin who made the plans, who decided when to come to port to off load the take. Who found out about the shipments and made the deals. Jago’s men are thinking with their cocks right now. They’ll be wanting to make port and spend their portions of the treasure. But when they sober up they’ll remember that it was Griffin who won it for them, and they’ll be wanting him to do it again.”

“I’ll kill Jago if I can,” Kit pointed out. “That is, if Detorres doesn’t beat me to it.”

Saunders nodded toward the hammock where the Spaniard was sleeping. “He said as much. I’ll hold your coats while you do it.”

They sailed for the rest of the day, fighting currents and tacking widely to get the best of the wind. Progress was slow and frustrating, so Kit decreed a make do and mend day to give himself, as much as the rest of the crew, something to do to take their minds of it. Africa went gallantly on her way, flapping with bunting made from laundry, and Kit finally managed a proper wash and got rid of most of the soot clogging his hair. Griffin slept soundly until noon when he awoke, groggy and bad tempered, more because he needed to piss than because he was slept out. Once he had finished in the heads, Kit brought him tea and persuaded him down to the cabin.

“I’ve had my sleep,” Kit assured him, “and you need to be rested for when we catch up with the Garnet.”

“That I do,” Griffin agreed. He sat on the edge of the cot, bare feet swinging, and yawned. “Wake me before sunset,” he said and caught Kit by the wrist then by the collar, drawing him close. Kit went to him, pushing Griffin until he lay back, and stooped over him to plant a gentle kiss on his healing lips.

“Sleep,” Kit said. “I’ll call you if anything of interest happens.”

“If you stayed it’s possible something of interest might happen right here,” Griffin suggested. But his eyes were already closing, so Kit laughed and went to open the stern windows to let the air blow through.

Kit insisted they let Griffin sleep and took responsibility for it when Griffin woke and swore at him. But Griffin’s heart wasn’t it, and he soon calmed down enough to accept the food Pollack had made for them. Food, drink, and rest were improving his looks by the day. The blistering from the sunburn was healing to a healthy, if patchy, tan, and the lack of drink had shrunk the network of blood vessels in his eyes. Griffin looked younger, less careworn, though he still grew silent and grim if Jago was mentioned.

That evening Saunders relented and allowed Griffin a small tumbler of brandy. Denny fetched it, as proud as Punchinello with his silver tray, and everyone who could be spared gathered in the waist of the ship to talk and pass the time. Kit had no real interest in drinking brandy, so he took some small beer to the tiller to relieve Lewis.

“Ah, our captain is back and looking a treat,” Lewis said before he went to join Protheroe. “And you are glad to have him back.”

“That I am,” Kit agreed.

“Ah,” Lewis nodded. “But you’ll still leave him if you can.” It was said with confidence as well as regret, as though it was a conclusion reached long ago by everyone but Kit.

“I can’t be a pirate,” Kit said and was astonished to hear the apologetic tone in his voice. “Privateering, in time of war, perhaps, but I can’t just—ruin honest merchants, sink fishing vessels. I can’t do that. The Santiago was different. That was—denying comfort to the enemy.”

“Lucky the man who feels he has a choice.” Lewis sighed. “And bear in mind that, when it comes to the law, young Kit, you may not be the one doing the choosing.”

“If you could go home, wouldn’t you?” Kit asked.

“And leave my dewydd, Protheroe?” Lewis shook his head. “There’s no choice for us. We’re thieves and pirates and scoundrels, but we love each other. Time was, here in the islands, men like us could sign a paper to say they were together and be honored for it as—what was the word? As mates—matlows?”

“Matelots?” Kit suggested.

“Aye, that was the word. But times moved on and now this is the only place for us—among the gentlemen of the coast where some remember the old ways and others just don’t care. That’s why we stay. Better the bright blaze, soon ash, with loving company than the long, dark, cold alone. No, I’ll not leave him—and see, he’s seen us looking so I’ll go and maybe light a little spark. Good night, Lieutenant Penrose, sir.”

Kit joined in Lewis’s laugh, though he didn’t really feel like it. The long, dark, cold alone—it had an ominous ring to it.

He was reminded of that thought when he awoke a little before midnight. The cabin was dark—the lantern must have burned out—lit only by starlight reflected off the water and very quiet. He stretched, burying his face in his arms and the pillow, sighing with satisfaction at the cool freshness of the air on his shoulders and the warmth of the rest of his body.

The sigh was echoed, and he opened his eyes, began to turn over, but a cool hand pressed him back down again. From the corner of his eye he saw Griffin stooping over him. “What hour is it?” Kit murmured, his voice scratchy with sleep. “Is it my watch?”

“Not yet,” Griffin said. His shirt was bunched in his free hand, and as Kit watched he let it fall. There was just enough light for Kit to see the gleam of his skin uninterrupted from shoulder to thigh as he stooped to draw back the covers. Cool air washed down Kit’s side followed by the pressure of a stroking palm. “Are you rested?” Griffin asked. “And are you awake?”

“Yes,” Kit said, tensing as Griffin’s hand moved again.

“Good,” Griffin murmured and stooped still farther to kiss Kit between his shoulder blades. “I should hate,” he added, “for this to be wasted.”

Chapter Nineteen

The feeling of Griffin’s breath, the brush of his beard against Kit’s shoulder made him shiver, and he drew breath to speak.

“Hush.” Griffin’s voice was soft but firm. “Move over.” His knee nudged Kit’s thigh as he climbed up onto the cot, but his mouth didn’t lose contact with Kit’s spine. He stroked the hair away from Kit’s nape and kissed him there as he lowered himself down to lie alongside him. With a deep sigh Griffin laid his head on Kit’s shoulder. His skin was slightly damp. So was his hair. It dripped against Kit’s lips, and he tasted the sea.

“Protheroe is on the wheel, with a true heading,” Griffin murmured, his voice felt as much as heard. “Detorres is asleep in the sick bay. Denny is in his berth in the fo’c’sle. There’s nobody on board apart from you and me who cares whether I sleep with you or on the floor. I promised myself that if I won free from that island I would do this. I want you, Kit. I think you want me.”

Kit drew a long breath. It was time for honesty, but he didn’t have the words—especially as he could feel the sharp edge of Griffin’s teeth against the top of his shoulder where the muscle was thickest, the rapid beat of a heart against his ribs, the warmth of another body marked by a greater heat against his hip. How could he say what he knew he must?

I don’t think I should do this. I know I must leave you. Please don’t make it even more difficult than it already is.

“Nothing to say, Kit?” Griffin whispered, as he had once before. “Nothing at all.” He stroked down Kit’s side again, fingers curling around his hip to touch a place that Kit hitherto had not thought was sensitive.

“Griffin,” Kit began. “I don’t think—”

“Best not to,” Griffin interrupted. His hand moved again, no longer cool. Kit’s skin tingled as fingers trailed around Kit’s waist and down to cup the cheek of his arse.

Griffin grunted. “Kit—it’s hot as Hades in here and you’re wearing drawers in bed. Damn me, boy, you’re an inconvenient soul.”

He ended the complaint with a sharp slap that stung a little, but the aggrieved tone of his voice made Kit laugh. Cold doubt fled, driven away by the heat of Griffin’s body and his heady scent, which made Kit’s senses spin.

“Why make things easy?” he demanded. “Life’s a challenge.”

“True.” Griffin kissed Kit’s shoulder again. “Come lad, I promise you’ll take no harm from me. If you’re scared of being hurt…”

“I’m not scared,” Kit protested and hitched himself round to glare at Griffin.

Griffin smiled. “Then take those absurd things off and prove it!”

Kit might have replied, but his mouth was stopped by Griffin’s kiss. Their legs fitted neatly together, Griffin’s thigh between Kit’s and vice versa. Kit groaned into Griffin’s mouth as Griffin’s hands pulled him into the tightest embrace he had ever felt. Kit clung to him as they kissed, his own hands beginning to rove. The sinewy strength of Griffin’s arms around him, the beat of his heart against Kit’s chest, the brush of hair against his nipples—who could have guessed how good that felt—and not least, the pressure of another cock alongside his own, hot even through the thin layer of his linen drawers.

Griffin was right. They were ridiculous garments and he should be rid of them.

“A moment,” he said and tried to turn on his back. The cot lurched as his shoulder hit the bulkhead and swung away from the wall. Kit began to slip into the narrow gap between the bulkhead and Griffin’s prized thirty-two pounder, but Griffin grabbed him by the waistband of his drawers and hauled him back again.

“Nearly lost you there.” Griffin chuckled, his breath brandy scented. “I’d have had to hook you out from behind the gun like a lost sock. We need sea room, Kit. It’s a tricky business until you know what you’re about.”

As he spoke Griffin got up, taking the covers with him. Kit wasn’t sure whether it was the change in temperature or the loss of contact, but he felt cold and uncertain again until Griffin stepped back beside the little window.

“Here,” Griffin said, throwing down the blanket, and offered Kit both his hands.

Kit sat up. Griffin had felt magnificent, but the sight of him—side lit by the stars—made Kit’s breath catch. Broad shoulders, deep chest, flat belly hollowing a little as he breathed, and that cock, long and proud, with soft skin pursed like a kiss around a glint of moisture at the tip. Kit stumbled from the cot, dragging the rest of the bedding, which he tossed down at Griffin’s feet before grabbing him by the shoulders and crushing their mouths together. As they kissed he felt Griffin’s hands busy at his waist then the slither of fabric around his thighs. He shifted, working the drawers down around his ankles, and stepped out of them, kicking them aside. Griffin grunted his approval and took a double-handed grip on his arse, pulling him close. Kit groaned against Griffin’s mouth. Through linen he had felt good, skin-to-skin he felt even better.

They broke off the kiss, both sucking in a breath, and Griffin stepped back a pace. “I want to see you properly,” he muttered, his voice thick. “Light the lantern, Kit, you know where the strike-a-light is kept, and I’ll make our bed.”

Table drawer, tinderbox, flint and steel. Kit’s hands flew to wake spark from stone, blew on the tinder until it glowed, and used it to light a sulphur spill. He cupped his hand around the little yellow flicker until the candle stump caught, a long smoky orange flame flaring up with a whiff of tallow. “There,” he said and turned. Griffin was on his knees, looking up at him. His smile made Kit’s heart race.

“There,” Griffin repeated and put his hands on Kit’s hips, drawing him a pace closer. Kit’s cock bobbed a jaunty welcome, and he felt his heart sink as Griffin laughed. Kit knew that comparisons were odious, but in this case he couldn’t resist a glance down, just to reassure himself. Not perhaps as impressive in length as Griffin’s but perhaps a little wider and of generally pleasing aspect, his cock rose in salute.

Griffin laughed again. “Oh Kit,” he said, “that’s nothing to be ashamed of. In fact…” He studied it for a moment before stroking across Kit’s belly to run his thumb up the underside of it.

“Dear God in heaven,” Kit whispered. Already tense, just that touch was almost enough to make him explode.

“What, Kit?” Griffin stroked him again, this time with the backs of his fingers, before taking him in a firm grasp. “Don’t tell me that nobody has ever done this before. Or this?” And he kissed it—kissed it—openmouthed.

Kit shouted with the shock of it, his head going back so that he almost cracked his head on the lantern. The heat of Griffin’s mouth, the rasp of his mustache on the tenderest skin, the movement of his tongue—too much. Kit brought his head forward, opening his eyes. The smile in Griffin’s eyes turned sly as he let Kit feel the slightest pressure of his teeth, oh too much, and Kit shouted again—no, yelped, his voice embarrassingly shrill—as stabs of pleasure almost sharp enough to be pain began to tear through him.