Chapter Six:
 

Before him were the sky and the sea, and his eyes swept slowly over the achingly beautiful shimmer of blue that ran through both. A small sound that was not a sigh pushed past his lips before he thinned them, and then he turned his eyes resolutely from the freely stretching Paradise and back to the Purgatory of columns on the page below him.

Staring out the window and dreaming away… He ought to be whipped for a laggard or a lackwit, would deserve it indeed since he was the world’s greatest fool.

James named himself right enough, pinching his spectacles more firmly onto the bridge of his nose, until it pained. He did not relieve the pressure on the small bone, frowning down fiercely at the numbers and sums he had just penned onto the neat leaf of paper instead, waiting for the dazzling view outside the opened window to fade from his memory.

His memory, as it always was of late, was not agreeable, and painted for him the faint trace of white sand at the edge of that sapphire water that would have been visible if he turned his head to look. Small, tottering wooden and brick buildings with thatched roofs almost blocked the sight of the Jamaica beaches from him, life in Port Royal busily going on in the street running alongside them, merchants, and house slaves, and sailors of every sort, not one stopping to glance out at the water. None would, James knew from experience, not even the mariners though they still walked as if water were below their feet. His own feet still tripped him with that delusion, at night when he was too tired to fight them.

He knew the merchants would not glance seaward, unless a profitable ship sailed in, and that the sailors sought only their pleasure before returning to where the water darkened. And the house slaves, they did not have the time to spare.

From the corner of his eye, James beheld the clouded spectacle of a wealthy lady in a carriage, her maid opposite her, eyes cast down. Her skin was nearly as white as the lady’s, so much so that only her meek posture told who belonged to whom. She was lighter than many of the Africans brought here to harvest sugar in the fields, though most of the house slaves were light-skinned, he had learned. Sir Marvell had several employed at various tasks at his home.

His thumb restlessly smoothed over the page on the desk before him, smearing a still wet droplet of ink. It stained the skin, revealing swirling patterns, and James studied them for a moment before realizing that he would also stain all that he touched now, including Sir Marvell’s accounts. He searched for and found his blotting cloth, and dabbed at his thumb until it was at least dried, and then tossed the scrap of cloth aside with a bit more force than was necessary. Let the clerks around him stare; he did not care a whit. He did not answer to them in any case.

Shifting in his seat, James raised his shoulders so that he would not have to feel their curious gazes on his face, then turned his body, already awkwardly angled on the slim stool. He looked a perfect fool and he knew it, ill fitting clothes stretched out over his large frame. Bought cheaply from a man nowhere near his size, but his only choice until he could afford to buy new togs, and that would be some time, for his salary was saved for other expenses, and he did not intend to ever spend the one remaining piece of gold still in his possession.

James coughed, the violent, abrupt hacking doing nothing to ease the fiery knot in his middle. He tossed his head, like some madman who heard voices that were not there, and narrowed his eyes again to the straightforward sums.

They were nothing but slashes of black on the parchment, meaningless, and he squeezed his eyes shut, setting down his quill before the others would see his shaking hands.

Three months it had been. Three months and the breezes of spring were felt even here in the Indies; surely they would carry away his degradation with them, leaving him free again. If only he waited a little longer.

He searched his soul for patience, seeking out the water with his eyes again when the desk failed to comfort him. A dark speck was visible on the ocean now, a ship, and another cough escaped him, though he quickly shaped it into a lifeless chuckle. Likely it was more pirates, or a slave ship, or silks from the East for the lords and ladies to wear. And with its cargo it would carry rats, disease, and drunken men, as well as news of home.

For the smallest moment James thought of the letter he had written, and the cost of mailing it, which did not guarantee it would even reach his father and stepmother. But they would be longing for news of him, and in truth he was well nigh sick to hear from them. Months to wait for that as well, if it came at all.

It was only the creaking of the desk that made James aware of his hands, pressed flat onto the chipped, hard surface and pushing down so tightly that he imagined the wooden legs were near to buckling. He quickly lifted them, clasping them together and inhaling deeply.

He did not need to be working these columns of figures now, and he unclasped his hands to snap the account book closed before he could smudge it further with his carelessness. He neatly cleaned his quill as well, and then set it down next to the closed ledger, letting the smooth feathery tip brush across his knuckles. The worn feather was as soft as a woman’s hair in his hands, reminding James of just how long it had been, well over a month, since he had been with a woman. His hands had tangled in her hair, just as soft as this, when she had bent over him to please him.

He had welcomed the different position, his stomach lurching to see her falling to her knees. The whore, Jean, her name had been, had not liked being dragged back to her feet, until James had desperately suggested her bed. He had been without company for close to a month, and she had been pretty and spirited. To his great relief her touch had made him hard, but he had not been able to simply stand there and let her suck his cock, no matter how pleasurable her mouth was.

He had not, still could not, recall the sensation of her thick hair wrapped around his fingers without a powerful feeling of loathing directed at himself. But his cry for the bed she had liked well enough, and James had been glad to feel softness at his back and not hard wood or rope.

Shame heated his face and neck, spreading like a conflagration down over his body, until he was sticky with sweat on his chest and under his arms, and his own smell reached his nose, stronger than the salt of the sea. He smelled of filth, and longed for a bath, though it would not cleanse him anymore than a swim in that pure blue water would clean his memories.

He was a fool.

His teeth found the inside of his cheek, biting and sending a small droplet tasting of metal over his tongue. He smeared the blood across the roof of his mouth and then swallowed it. Perhaps if he found Jean again he could purge himself of the memories once and for all. But fear tightened his throat, and he glanced down once more, and then let his eyes swing back to the shore, and the ship making its way in.

It was not the same ship, of that he was certain without even looking closer. And he was grateful, relieved, that he could continue to work and live here without risking anyone knowing the truth of his past. Though, verily, none who visited the port city seemed to care one bit who fucked who in the inns and behind taverns, no matter what sex or country of origin. Or age. But what else could one expect in an island guarded by thieves.

Grimacing, James thought of Ben, and glanced about anxiously for the child, as he had been doing since arriving in Port Royal. Ben was supposed to be helping around Sir Marvell’s home with anything that needed to be done in exchange for his feeding and care, but had come into town with James today. And now he had wandered off, probably getting into mischief. He would come back later with a few coins or a few bruises or both, grinning as if nothing had happened.

“Earned ‘em,” was all the child would say if James asked about either, with a strange, triumphant light in his green eyes, and so James had stopped asking, even if the sight of the bruises had nearly created a panic inside of him at first. Ben had seemed surprised that James had asked at all, as if James already knew the answer, or perhaps as if no one had ever asked before. Whatever the reason for Ben’s odd behavior, he was proud of the money he earned and had fairly beamed like the sun when James had smiled at Ben’s little pile of savings, leaning against him warmly until James had pulled away.

“He snuck out a while ago,” a helpful clerk supplied from behind him and James blinked before nodding to acknowledge the man’s comment, wondering if all could read his thoughts on his face. How he shuddered to think they might, and trembled inside to know that to some his damned foolish notions must have been obvious indeed.

But at times, at night especially, the port town was a sinful place, well deserving of its title of the wickedest city in the world. The pirates and privateers and corsaires more than ensured that with their debauchery, and James would not have Ben touched by that. One taste of it had nearly ruined James.

Taste. This time his cough was more of a gagging noise, a horrified gasp as the strength seeped from him and his flesh heated. So hot and heavy on his tongue, weighing down his lip, a thin stream of his own spittle slipping down his chin as he had struggled, struggled like some drunken sod to take in more of Villon’s cock. Into his mouth.

James choked, his own madness stealing the breath from his lungs.

And he had not been able to breathe then either, but he had not minded. God’s teeth, he had not even felt the ground under his knees or the sharp tug of hands in his hair. And René had groaned and wept above him and James had felt the other man’s arousal, and unlike with the woman he only dimly remembered, James had grown so hard that it had hurt.

His eyes opened in an attempt to be rid of their dry stinging, and he found himself staring out at the window again, unsurprised this time. He had still been hard later, he reminded himself, hard and aching when kneeling his own sick, listening to the clatter of coins on the ground all around him, watching a red coat slip away into the darkness. He did not want to think of the rest.

Villon had been generous; James had not even paid that much to Jean. But he would not have taken it, if there had not been Ben to consider.

His hand stole into the pocket of his tightly fitted coat; down to the very bottom where, tucked into the half-ripped seam, was a thick gold coin. His teeth snapped together as he set his jaw, his ink-stained thumb tracing over the stamped markings.

“Ah, there he is.” The hearty tones of Sir Marvell snapped James’ attention from the past and around to the opening door of the small office. Hurriedly, he reached for his wig hanging off the corner of the desk and slapped it onto his head, trying not to imagine whose head the hair had come from, as he often did when he was forced to wear the bloody thing. Or to think of Lord Cavendish, and the chestnuts curls of which he had been so proud.

The hair fell heavily against the back of his neck and he shivered with the desire to take the thing off and scratch his scalp. He would grow hot in a moment, and probably sweat like a man out in the fields. There was nothing for it however, so he stood up respectfully just as his employer stepped over the threshold. Behind him was another figure, and the first real smile of the day passed over James’ lips to see the lean form of Etienne St. Cyr.

Etienne’s eyes were dark, especially against his pale, powdered face, but they only lit with a lazy amusement to see James adjusting his wig. St. Cyr wore his own wig with ease, a dark one today though James had seen him with a paler shade of hair as well. This one fell over the white lace dripping over his shoulders and neck and then slid away as he raised one arm to extend his hand, twisting his wrist limply.

He did not intend anyone to take his hand James knew, it was simply the way the noble French moved, with many such gestures. James also knew that if he tried to move with the same spare elegance, he would have looked like a simpering idiot, mincing around like a play actor. It was strange that Etienne seemed so much older, when it fact he could only have been James’ age underneath that face paint.

But he had not time to acknowledge it, not with Sir Marvell stepping forward to greet him. Sir Marvell waved a hand at the other clerks, telling them to sit back down without saying more than a ‘good day’ to any of them. His large blue eyes focused on James and then he jerked his head back toward the doorway and Etienne St. Cyr, sending his own long, decorative curls flying.

James nodded carefully at the French noble who still had not spoken and then returned his eyes to Sir Marvell.

“St. Cyr wishes to speak, James, but his English is not holding up, and my French…” His Lordship made a slight face to remind James of his lack of skill with the French tongue, and James felt a sudden need to find and thank his boyhood tutor, who had seen fit to educate him in so many languages. It had served him well in finding employment. He very much doubted than Sir Marvell would have noticed him at all any more than the other clerks, if James had not supplied him with a Castilian phrase at a timely moment.

Only the lower classes seemed to bother with their lessons, James thought with a sharp, bitter taste to his mouth that would have shocked him in his days with Lord Cavendish. And of course, his skills with numbers and sums had not hurt him either, not with lords who could not dress themselves, much less add figures from morning until night. But James had been eager for work, any work, in his early days in Jamaica, and Sir Marvell claimed to admire his ambition, so much so that he had given James a position almost like that of a steward or head clerk over the goods from his plantation, and had even taken him into his home, saying he was pleased to see his charity in caring for a small child.

In time he might even manage the manage the entire plantation and not just the trading office in town, but his stomach turned at the idea for some reason, and James pushed away the thought of overseeing those out in the fields, wishing fiercely that he was another sort of man, one who truly had such ambitions. He wanted very much to be another man, and stumbled as he took a step to bring himself closer to Sir Marvell.

The small shoes barely fit his feet, and the ground beneath was not the rolling wooden deck of a ship. Nonetheless, his face heated as he raised his head, not even wanting to see the expression in St. Cyr’s eyes. He was too used to dark eyes laughing at him.

For one moment James was tightly furious, biting his lip to contain his rage, praying that he could, and then it was gone as if it had not been.

“I am happy to be of service to you, Sir,” James assured his employer once he had remembered the man’s purpose in seeking him out and tried to find a smile. He could not, but Sir Marvell did not seem to notice or care.

His square face came forward, leaning at James for a bare moment as the words, “Damned French,” were whispered between them, then he pulled back and waved for Etienne to come closer.

James’ mouth twisted, as much for the heavy amount of onions Sir Marvell had apparently eaten as for his slur against the Frenchmen. Though he had his faults, Etienne St. Cyr had not yet proven himself to be any better or worse than anyone else on this whole corrupt, beautiful island. None here were saints. There was not one innocent soul to be found in Jamaica, except for the children.

Sir Marvell grinned warmly at the Frenchmen despite his words of a moment ago and put out a hand to pat him jovially on the back. He did not seem to notice how the other man flinched at his action, but James’ eyes widened as Etienne’s met his to show his disgust. However, his faintly painted lips were shaped into a smile as well when he turned back to face Sir Marvell, his head tilted up the slightest bit to make up for their height difference. Both of them would have to look up to talk to James, and James dropped his shoulders without thinking, not wanting to be thought of as presumptuous.

“I was telling him what a pleasing day it is, when we met in the street,” Etienne began slowly, looking at James. James picked up the formal words easily, much easier than he had understood the crude, rapid words of Villon and his crew. “And he stands there like a servant and gapes.” The calm manner in which the man reached up to pick a bit of dust from his sleeve belied the way his gaze held James’ in a silent conspiracy.

Though it was wrong to laugh at the man who had taken him into his home, James felt his lips twitch just the same. He corrected himself instantly, shocked at being so rude. And it was not as if Etienne’s English were any better than Sir Marvell’s French.

“He says it is a nice day, Sir,” James said deliberately, in English, but Sir Marvell just nodded as if he had known that much. There was a moment’s pause, as if both men were debating whether or not to continue with pleasantries, leaving James to stand there, and then Etienne smiled.

It was a cool smile, deliberate, and for one dizzy moment James was reminded of the Black Devil, of Villon, waiting to pounce while whispering smug words.

Someone should show you what your sword is for. How differently those words struck his ears now. Villon must have been toying with him from the beginning.

“His coat is cut much better than his last one.” Etienne seemed not be in the mood to discuss business just yet. James shook himself free of unwanted remembrances and translated for his employer. Sir Marvell dropped one hand to his coat in a way that was obviously flattered before he recovered himself and managed an irritated laugh.

“Monsieur St. Cyr chooses to tease me,” he remarked on the same puff of air as his chuckle and then wagged one finger at him—much in the same manner that James had found himself doing toward Ben. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we ought to turn to talk of our venture.”

Sir Marvell did not see the spark of mirth and triumph in St. Cyr’s eyes at his abrupt change of subject, but James did, and recognized it for what it was. He was frowning before he thought to hide it, daring to insult his employer’s business partner, and a noble at that.

For the thinnest moment, Etienne lifted his eyebrows and blinked, as if quite startled to see James’ condemnation, and then he was shrugging in a way that James burned to see, feeling a perfect idiot. He dropped his chin.

“Your yield this year was significant?” With a heavy sigh, Sir Marvell turned and headed for the back of the room, toward the inner office and the desk where he kept the bottle of the brown liquor made near his home in Northumberland, back in England. Whiskey he called it, though Ben had a slightly different way of pronouncing the word. His lordship poured some into a glass when he returned and then offered it to Etienne, who accepted with a curious look, waiting on James as he spoke.

How they ever done business before this was something James pondered in their quiet moments, though he had long before decided that they must rely on one of the other partners in their…venture…when all together, or that Etienne had not always spoken for his part. He was as new to Port Royal as James was, and enjoyed taking James with him in search for ways to relieve his ennui, as he called it, and laughing at the way that James regarded the wild city. If only James knew the secrets of Paris, he had said not three days ago.

“Oui,” Etienne answered, and then took a sip of his whiskey. He resulting fit of coughing was so strong that his eyes filled with water, and some of the powder dusted across his high cheekbones streaked. James had to grab the glass from his hand before he dropped it and then pat his back to calm him, stroking his hand down over the warm silk of his coat.

“So was mine. It was a good year.” Sir Marvell seemed intensely satisfied about something as he finished his own drink and took Etienne’s. He asked politely if Monsieur St. Cyr would like any more and when he got no answer finished that as well. He did not cough at all. “The price for the sugar and tobacco ought to be high, and bring us plenty of money. Monies that ought to be kept for just us, do you not agree?” he wondered with a cool smile.

Etienne brought his head up, wiping at his cheeks furiously. But he said nothing, regarding Sir Marvel with wide eyes, his body shuddering slightly under the palm of the hand James had left at his back.

“Oui,” he said at last, quietly.

“Good!” Sir Marvell’s smile was suddenly as warm as the sunshine. He set down the cups and turned back to them, utterly ignoring the clerks as he gestured outside. “Mayhap we should finish our talk outside…since the day is so pleasant.” As if he were an intimate friend, he leaned in close to Etienne, forcing James to back away. Etienne went still as well, staring up at the older man, and then cleared his throat.

“It is a nice day,” he commented in English, then frowned and glanced at James. “Do not stand about, Monsieur Fitzroy, follow us,” he ordered with a dismissive sound and spun around to disappear back out the door. One look at his employer assured him that this was agreeable to him, and so James followed, with a frown of his own, his face afire.

They would speak of their business now, outside without the clerks to hear. James knew what the conversation would be of, even if he did not understand the new thread of darkness that seemed to be woven into the words of the two noblemen. Without speaking, they stopped only a few feet from the door, next to Sir Marvell’s waiting carriage. James kept his eye on the horses, refusing to look at either man as they spoke.

“How do you intend to keep the cargo safe?” Etienne offered the first real words, which James then duly offered to Sir Marvell. The sun was hot, and his garments were of thick fabric. His skin felt seared, and he closed his eyes for a moment at the sweat trailing down his forehead, grateful that he wore no paint.

“The way we usually do, well guarded—the guards ought to be arriving any day now.” Sir Marvell added that as if it were of no consequence but Etienne seized on it.

“Pirates?” St. Cyr evidently saw no need to pretend, but James shivered, his attention drawn from the mindless study of horseflesh to the business at hand. To traffick with pirates was foolish, madness. They held nothing sacred, not even their own promises, surely hiring them to watch over valuables was like having a fox watch over the hens. Madness.

He opened his mouth to protest, though he had known of their planning for some time now, but other than as his interpreter, Sir Marvell seemed not to care for his opinion on this matter. He had done it before, by his own words, and had not had a problem.

“Better that then lose it altogether to some other group, and they rarely betray their own. They find the penalty too high.” James could feel his employer’s stare, daring him with his usual friendly amusement to comment. Only it did not feel like amusement now, at least not to James.

Silence answered that, and James finally took his gaze from the impatient teams of horses to look at Etienne, who was looking back at him.

“And do you think thieves have honour, James?” He used his first name deliberately James was sure, testing him or perhaps simply because he could. Nonetheless, he seemed to truly want an answer. James could not speak, words died in his throat, and so he gave one short, curt nod, then gasped, having meant to shake his head. He quickly did so, and Etienne arched his brows.

“One of the ships is in harbor now, if you care to meet the man, put your doubts to rest.” Sir Marvell was squinting up at the sky, looking as though he wished he had his hat. A snap would have brought the large slave by his carriage running with it, but he did not call him over. “The Bug or the Spider he goes by, or some nonsense.”

James let out one slow breath, and then glanced back at Etienne St. Cyr, who seemed oddly hesitant. He had even ceased to stand with his strange posture, toes pointed out and arms arranged in some delicate position. His hands instead seemed lost in the lace at his cuffs.

“You do want to be certain, don’t you, boy?”

James nearly jumped, to hear the abrupt change in Sir Marvell’s tone. Despite his lack of a title, Etienne St. Cyr was the eldest son of a noble family. As these things were accounted in France, he was more than Sir Marvell’s equal, and yet Sir Marvell spoke almost as to a servant. “Your father would be distressed if you lost the family’s money,” Sir Marvell added, tapping his leg impatiently with the heel of one hand.

James could not help the way his voice grew thick as he repeated the words, shifting his gaze uncertainly between his employer and Etienne. It was rare to see Sir Marvell without a smile, and not once in the past months had James seen him cold as he was now. Even more rare to see Etienne stand and take such insults, or at least what James felt were insults.

“You do not want just any body to see how much more money joining your crop with ours, and selling it in England will make you,” he went on, and Etienne seemed to straighten at the final words. He was lifting his chin and giving James a careful grin. James could hardly see the smeared tracks of his face paint now, though most of the powder had come off.

“I see you were right, James. There is no honour.” The French words were accompanied by a slight jerk of Etienne’s eyebrows, at what James did not know. But he felt an ache in his skull, and the itch from his wig returned with a fierceness that had him twitching to be rid of it. That he implied Sir Marvell was a thief was bad enough, but to defame himself as well… But the shake in his voice was plain, and James could not stop a quick, disbelieving glance at Sir Marvell. “And has Monseignor had any problems with les Maroons I have heard of?” Etienne switched the topic to the roaming bands of escaped slaves up in the mountains of the mainland with a suddenness that would have been surprising from anyone else, but that was his way. James sighed before speaking, relieved to feel the tightness in the air slipping away.

“Not on my land,” Sir Marvell assured him, nodding his head firmly as if that were all that needed to be said on the matter. “I can deal with those savages as well as with those marauders at sea. But I’m afraid I have no time to talk further with you, Monsieur. James…” He turned and James lifted his head expectantly, shaking away the memories that had seized hold of him at the familiar words.

“May I also borrow your man for a few hours, My Lord?” Etienne pushed himself into the conversation smoothly, extending one hand in a loosely graceful supplication. Even knowing his purpose in asking that way, James felt his teeth grind together. Being borrowed as if he were a tool or a toy. But his lordship was agreeing, and James reminded himself bitterly that his own choices did not matter in the least, that he was fortunate to have such a position in the world, and ought not ask for more. The man had every right to use him, he was nothing but another’s man doxy, Villon had made that more than clear to everyone had he not? Just a doxy on his knees and just as easily forgotten.

A brief touch to his shoulder and James blinked to see Etienne St. Cyr staring at him expectantly. Then with a little smile that seemed not directed at James at all, he shrugged and turned away. James followed his gaze to see Sir Marvell ascending into his carriage, slamming his hat carelessly onto his head and waving for the driver to go on. He nodded as he passed, and James blinked, surprised to find his eyes dry.

“He gave you instructions, but I do not think you heard them.” Etienne commented as they both watched the carriage roll down the crowded street. “La.” He made the sound as if it were a word in itself and reached into a coat pocket to extract a bit of cloth. James focused on him as the man wiped off the remainder of his powder and tucked the cloth back away. He suddenly seemed as young as James knew him to be, a few months older than his own twenty years. At the same time he seemed odd, his features less pointed and narrow, less—and James blushed to think the word—effeminate. He was a creature of intense focus for one moment as the light hit his naked face, and then he smiled languidly and the illusion was gone.

“The cut of your coat is terrible as well.” He sneered playfully, and then James was pulling back in surprise as Etienne’s hands wormed inside of his coat and tugged on the fabric, bringing them sharply together. “The English…” Etienne went on, straightening James’ clothing and shaking his head, nothing but annoyance in his shadowed eyes.

“You do business with the English.” James pointed out shallowly, stepping away as quickly as he could. His cheeks were still warm, and he cleared his throat, not that St. Cyr seemed to care.

“Perhaps you should visit one of the women here instead of running from them?” Etienne curled his lips knowingly, and James thought of their times in town together, when Etienne had gone off with many of the girls serving the tables, and James had sipped at his ale and waited for him to return. It was the first time Etienne had remarked upon his strange, maiden-like chastity and James’ ill humour worsened to hear it. “And I do not do business with the English,” Etienne added when James opened his mouth to argue.

“Do you not?” he managed, feeling almost as he had his first few days on board a ship, dizzy and unsteady. St. Cyr was fond of directing conversations in this way; James had not yet determined whether it was the habit of all French nobles, or of Etienne alone. He supposed he ought to be grateful that Etienne did not speak directly as Villon had done.

“My…family…does business with them. Me…I am like you in this, no?” It was probably the abrupt switch to English that made Etienne pause so strangely. But James made a face, ready to argue despite the lure of a free afternoon to himself. His lordship wished him to keep an eye on the sometimes-reckless Frenchman, that was why he allowed their days in town. But that did not mean that James had to bow to the young nobleman’s every whim.

“What was that about?” James asked, stealing Etienne’s own method of a rapid subject change. He even lifted one eyebrow questioningly, and had to fight the urge to grin when Etienne’s eyes narrowed in threat. There was no logic in his desire to provoke Etienne’s temper, no logic at all especially when he considered how his tenuous position was partly dependent on St. Cyr’s goodwill. It was another sign of his madness, and yet he did not bother to fight it, or even try to hide his wants.

“English…” Etienne began with what the French obviously termed an insult, low in his throat, and James lifted his chin and stared boldly into his pale face, wondering if this time the Frenchmen would continue their debate or dismiss him yet again. His feet shifted impatiently on the ground as he straightened, nearly dancing in place like Ben when excited, and it was a struggle to control himself.

“Etienne,” James thrust back, daring to use the man’s given name. His heart pounded loudly in his ears, but he kept still, waiting. St. Cyr paused to study him from lowered eyes, though something twitched along his jaw at James’ presumption. James half-expected him to issue some drunkenly slurred challenge, and sucked his lip between his teeth. But Etienne’s face did not gain colour and his expression did not change. After a long moment, he only tossed his head and glanced away.

A weight pressed down onto James’ shoulders and he dropped them with a small sigh, a slight twinge of shame making him flinch when St. Cyr only continued to stare over his shoulders as if it were not yet proper for him to look back into James’ face.

Others could read his face, James realized with horror and then lowered his hands to his sides, clenching them so hard against his thighs that the muscles in his arms trembled.

“Your boy,” Etienne offered, pointing leisurely, and James swung around just as Ben strolled up behind him, smiling his triumphant smile. The one that meant he had no doubt been into more trouble than even he and dear Jack and Peter had been in as lads. Ben was still wearing his ragged breeches from his ship’s service, but a shirt had been added, and Ben let it hang loosely about his small frame, though he had rolled up the sleeves to expose his wrists. The child still looked too slight for a boy his age, but James would swear he had grown taller in their months in Jamaica.

Ben clearly saw them, and hurried his pace when James smiled at him before turning back around.

“Perhaps the boy can be of help to me.”

Blinking, James watched Etienne signal for his own carriage down the street, waving at the negro servant he had hired for his stay in Port Royal. His own servants he had left at his family’s petit-colon in the Antilles.

“I don’t think…” His frown must have startled Ben, who stopped at his side to look furtively between the two of them.

“Calm yourself, papa.” Etienne laughed openly at the shock with which James regarded him, winking down at Ben, though Ben did naught in return save glance again at James. The confusion in his green eyes was enough to make James snap his mouth closed, making an impatient noise in his throat at St. Cyr’s teasing. “I only want a guide to the harbour,” the Frenchman added, returning to speaking his own tongue. “I thought to have you accompany me, but I do not object to the child as well.”

“You intend to speak with this Spider then?” He should not have been surprised, not with the way Sir Marvell had taunted him. Etienne waved one hand about as this was nothing, stirring the layers of pointed lace at his cuff, and so James tried to ignore the sick flutterings forming in his stomach at the idea of talking with a pirate. He did not want Ben around pirates. He did not…he did not want to be around them himself. They stood for swords and blood and thievery and he had a surfeit of those. His belly churned.

“Do you have some other plan for your afternoon?” The twinkling light in St. Cyr’s gaze implied he knew well enough that James had no plans, and James curled his fingers into his palms, letting out one slow breath.

“He botherin’ you, Master James?” Ben’s thin voice cut through his tight thoughts, and James scowled to realize that he and Etienne had excluded him from their conversation, much as the two noblemen had done to him earlier.

“I am fine, child.” Why Ben looked so fierce at the gentle words James would never know. Before he could ask, Etienne’s carriage pulled up alongside them.

“You are not coming then?” Etienne took one step toward the vehicle and then half turned, lifting one thin eyebrow and curving up his lips the smallest amount in invitation. James dropped his eyes to the ground, study the swirls of dirt surrounding his tiny slippers, and then raised them again. The Frenchman was still waiting, extending one arm, all clean silk and lace.

“Yes, I will come,” James agreed quietly, as if his breath had been stolen from him, and then looked down again, unsure despite his bold words. “…Ben…” But before he could say a thing more, Ben slipped past him to follow after St. Cyr.

The boy patted the horses with an ease that bespoke of an early life in the countryside, then hopped up to sit beside the coachman. James spared a moment to remind Ben not to get into trouble and was rewarded with a laugh for his efforts. Then he followed Etienne into the narrow carriage and sat on bare bench across from him. James glanced up as the negro man shut the door behind him, looking down quickly before the other man could avert his eyes as was proper.

“A real boucanier… I hope it will be diverting.” Etienne fussed with the line of his coat and then made a face at the hardness of the bench, shifting from one side of his arse to the other and then pursing his lips in a pout. It was almost an amusing sight but James just scowled at him.

“I hope it will not be,” he insisted, mostly to himself for he knew that Etienne was not listening to him at the present, too concerned with his tender arse. James had slept on wood harder than this bench, and the wood did not hurt nearly as much as…

Suddenly overheated, James turned his face to the window. The blind was lifted, and he studied the view of the street as there was the sound of a whip cracking and the carriage lurched into motion.

“Do you know anything of this…Spider?” Lord Cavendish would have called such a name a silly game for fools, but James imagined that, as many of the sea robbers were poor men and peasants, giving themselves a title held a daring sort of appeal. He could not see himself with one however, and wondered, for the smallest of moments, why René Villon had not taken one.

But then the man was not a boucanier, James reminded himself, even if he had the manner of one. He was a corsaire, and a corsaire who had preyed on an English ship, even if the story of their ship’s capture held no interest to anyone, having had no treasure onboard. Jamaica was an English sovereignty, if one run by pirates. He would not be at the harbor, and there was no reason for James to feel as if needles poked into his flesh at every turn.

“The name is familiar.” St. Cyr’s tone was airy and distant, meaning that he knew nothing, James decided with suspicion but managed to hold his tongue. “I know the man is not English, or of France.” Etienne paused there, finally sitting all the way down on the bench and staying as still as a man could with the bumps in the dirt shaking the whole carriage about.

“And still you do business with…” James forced himself to stop, jerking his gaze from the other man and chastising himself for his runaway tongue. But Etienne as usual said nothing, not even seeming to care about James’ outburst, so James turned furiously back. “People who traffick with thieves are…”

“Other thieves?” Etienne met his eyes pointedly and smiled a smile without teeth. “And am I not that? Stealing from my own country?” The words were spoken with a small trace of a strange and yet familiar sadness that nearly reached into James and snatched the breath from his lungs. A simple phrase that carried a large weight behind it. Etienne had never spoken of his business with Sir Marvell to James directly until this moment, and James was not quite sure what to say.

Merchants back in London had complained about tariffs many times, and many had schemed to get around the high taxes on imported goods. Mayhap in France they were higher, and the laws restricting the ports were stricter, but it did not change the knowledge that when the St. Cyr family shipped their sugar and tobacco to England in English ships, they broke the law. James did not know the punishment, but knew enough to know that the crime was serious indeed, like stealing monies from the King himself.

“Do not frown at me, James. You look like a priest.”

“I am not a…” James froze with the rest of his words unspoken, settling back onto the bench, surprised to see how he had leaned forward. Etienne clucked his tongue as if he wanted to say something mocking, but then sighed and looked away.

“With the money, perhaps we will rise in position at court. My sisters will find themselves better suited to find the right husbands, and I will not have to marry Marie du Ville who has the face of a horse and the spirit of a block of wood.” He seemed to sense James was not amused at his jesting tone, for he sighed again, heavily. “What would you have me do, James?” He turned to face the window and his eyebrows drew together.

“I…” His stammer barely caused him embarrassment, not with his shock at being asked such a question. Etienne reached up to knock twice on the ceiling of the little carriage and then shot James an annoyed look.

“I was not serious, you English monk,” he mocked him with a tight smile, then sat up at the carriage rolled to a stop. He swung the door open and waited impatiently for the man to appear with the stool. When the man did, Etienne stepped lightly into the street and pulled out his handkerchief, gesturing with it as James stumbled out after him.

It had not been a long ride, merely slow for the people and animals using the street. Pigs and birds roamed freely through the dirt lanes, and the people trying to avoid the livestock ended up in the carriage’s path.

Wrinkling his nose, Etienne held the cloth to his face and peered out over the collection of wooden docks and storied buildings of the harbor. James turned away from the man to look out over the water, inhaling the salted tang of the air. A beautiful blue, stretching as far as he could see, and then farther beyond, to places he had never been, to France and to England both. Etienne would leave soon after the deal was arranged, away to his home probably never to return. And James would remain here many years into the future, perhaps until he died.

“My father will not like if I fail.” Thick with tension and fear, Etienne’s voice told of a longing to stay in the Indies, though he did not look at the water but at the rows of taverns and inns, already filling up with men. It was a quiet afternoon, no fights or shouting, just tired men looking for drink and company. James thought that later Etienne would probably want to join them in those taverns, and considered Etienne’s title for him, a monk.

After Jean, he could not bring himself to visit with another whore, even if he had been willing to spend the coin. He doubted very much that he could persuade a woman to come to him for free; he had only had such a sweet-heart once, as a youthful folly, and he was but a lowly clerk now, no woman would look at him.

But his skin still burned to recall the scorching looks of the strange man three night’s ago, in a tavern much like these. Just lounging across one chair with one foot propped on another, just as Villon had done many times on le Diable Noir. He had to have been a pirate, for he had worn a cutlass and had the dark skin of a sailor, but his light hair had been twisted up into a scarf in a manner like how the Turks were said to wear, or like a peasant woman doing the washing, and his form had been hidden by many layers of shirts and vestes and one long coat, as if the weather warranted such warm dress. Nothing had hidden the man’s eyes however, perusing James’ body and face as boldly as René had done and then smiling an invitation to him from across the room.

Etienne had stumbled back into the room then, and James had run over to help escort him out of the tavern.

“Just where do you think to find this man?” James demanded harshly. The ships and men all looked the same despite the many different coloured flags of origin.

“I will ask.” Etienne started to walk away, stepping delicately around the pig shit in the street as he headed toward a tavern. James nearly stepped in it, then swore and turned around, jumping slightly to see Ben right behind him.

“We will wait for him out here,” James told the boy seriously and Ben made a face. Before he could ask, James went on. “We are looking for a man…a pirate.”

“You want…” Ben shut his mouth and pursed it thoughtfully. Then his eyes lit up. “Are we goin’ back to sea then?”

“No!” James almost shouted it and hurriedly took a breath to calm himself. Ben’s little mouth thinned, but then he nodded. “Did…do you…want to?” He found himself whispering as Ben’s eyes widened.

“There is a man inside who knows L’Araignée…Aranha.” Etienne interrupted James’ careening thoughts with a loud sneer that carried from several yards away. His words made little sense, speaking of the Spider and then adding another word James did not know. “He is drunk.” St. Cyr’s annoyance increased the closer he came to them, though James wondered if Etienne felt the effects of Sir Marvell’s whiskey yet. “But the ship and the man are here. The man is even onshore.” He tossed one hand carelessly. “Somewhere.”

It was a struggle not to scowl, though James was aware that his eyes narrowed. Etienne started to whine, complaining as he moved, about the heat of the day, the class of people around him, and damned pirates all in the same volume. James blinked once before following, keeping his gaze all around them anxiously, hoping that none of the pirates understood his words.

Ben stayed at his side, talking to himself as well. Whatever he murmured in his native tongue did not sound as if it would please the nobleman, but James allowed it, only touching the boy on the shoulder occasionally to steer him free of trouble.

Every yard or so, St. Cyr would stop and send a cursory look about the harbor as if expecting a man with ‘spider’ etched across his head in ink to appear for him. And after the fourth time James just stopped following, jutting out his chin stubbornly though Etienne did not see it. Holding onto Ben, he stood up straighter and pinched his glasses firmly onto his nose. He could see further than Etienne or Ben could, and searched the area around him for a likely looking person to talk to, since the ships were too far away for their names to be seen.

Out before him were crooked wooden docks, filled with casks and trunks and crates and men of every shape and colour imaginable. They extended into the water for short distances, and tied to them were what looked like hundreds of small boats from the many ships anchored off shore. It would be near impossible to find one man in that chaos without more information, and James snatched off his wig and held it at his side, welcoming the instant feeling of coolness and relief on his skull.

Some of men around him wore rags; others seemed to feel that pirates ought to dress as brightly as actors or Gypsies. Expensively dyed clothing from their victims must be the mark of a successful sea robber, James decided as his eyes tried to follow every bit of gold and azure and scarlet that flashed past him.

His eyes lingered on the scarlet togs, as he had known they would. Fear, no doubt, that one of the men wearing the colour would turn and be Villon. All seemed to have the shape of him. He focused his sight on one small figure, even possessing long, black hair tied back at his nape, dressed in a crimson coat and dirty breeches. Lord’s mercy, the man even stood with the same elegant carelessness that Villon had had, which Etienne aspired to have.

It was much too hot to be wearing such a coat. None of the other men nearby did, save himself and St. Cyr, and it was a sign of pride, foolish pride, and arrogance. Scowling, James made to move away, then stilled instead, something in his mind making him turn back.

Too far away, the man was too far away for James to know with certainty, but he could feel it, his brain screaming and buzzing like a thousand honeybees in a field of flowers. He shook with it, trying to think clearly, then make his feet carry him away.

Swiftly, with an abruptness that spoke of decision and dismissal, the man spun away from his companions and faced the shore. His skin was pale, like a man who hid from the sun, odd, for a sailor. James realized that for the first time and then choked as the pale face seemed to swing toward him. Too far away, he thought again as the slender figure froze, the blue of the ocean and sky behind him now, not the white of sails.

“Master James?” Ben was asking him, seemingly worried, but James did not move his eyes from the man, the man who was suddenly moving, heading in this direction as if he had the fires of Hell at his back. Too far away, James thought once more and then shook his head. Not far enough.

He took one step back, and would have fallen if Ben had not shoved against his side to keep him steady. I need to look where I place my feet, he reflected, shamed at his awkwardness yet again. But his eyes would not go where he bid them, and the man drew closer, close enough for James to see his black eyes.

God. One word was all his mind would allow. One word, and then another. René.

“Master Villon!” Ben shouted it breathlessly, exclaiming his disbelief and looking at James with a gaze heavy with expectation. “Do y’want to run?” the boy wondered, startling James even through the foggy mess his mind had become.

It was of no use trying to leave now. He realized that easily, something of his sense returning. He blinked several times and reached up to straighten his glasses though they did not need it, not liking to see how his hand trembled.

Villon was in front of him when he dropped his hand, only a few yards away, and James let the breath slide out of his chest until there was none left, and he grew dizzy. As his eyes swept quickly over the slender form, he saw again what he had noted in those first few moments of their time together on the ship; Villon seemed to not be breathing at all, though James knew it was just illusion.

He looked well, uninjured by either an enemy or an illness in the three months since James had last laid eyes on him. That was good. The rush of relief had him straightening up, wanting to dispel his concern, trying to think of what must have truly been worrying him; the brief fear that he might had have the pox, as all pirates and sailors were said to. But other than his light tan, so much lighter than that of most seamen, and the bright shine to the man’s eyes, Villon seemed healthy and hale, untouched by anything. No doubt the man had spent three months killing and stealing with not a thought to him, or how he had left him. Likely he seduced and abandoned many.

Sometimes the man did not seem to be like other men. But he had felt enough like a man, as James knew well. His mouth was wicked, hot as the sin of lust itself, tight and wet, moving around his prick as if he were greedy for the taste of James’ spunk sliding to his belly.

He gasped suddenly, noisily, body shivering uncontrollably as he grew warmer and the sun’s heat was an agony. It had been hot too, even at night when curled over the rail, a hard throbbing force pounding into some spot inside of him that splintered his reason, liquid tongue licking a trail between his shoulders and behind his ears, whispers in French that only later had his mind made clear for him. Sweet. More. Please. James. Sweet. James. And then just that, his name as if it were the only sound in the world, howled quietly into his ear until James had come off in a ragged burst of shock.

So very hot, against his palm, and James could feel his body pound hungrily, stiffening as blood drained to his cock. His palms against his own arousal were not so warm, so hot and full, neither were his fingers, in as far as they could go.

The other man was still for so long that when he finally blinked, it was as though someone had cut an unseen rope between them, and James was suddenly dangling, a loose sail in the wind.

He snapped his head up and watched with satisfaction as Villon blinked, dropping one hand to the hilt of his cutlass, where he always seemed to rest it. His large eyes widened, and then narrowed to slits, the lids falling in a look that was well known to James. His back stiffened, as rigid as iron when he felt the force of those eyes traveling over his body.

For the smallest moment in time, James let his fingers tighten around the wig in his hands, fighting the urge to toss it away. Villon’s opinion on the thing was not important. But his ill-fitting garments, those were another matter, and James could feel his skin scorching with his own humiliation. Villon wore another’s man coat, a stolen coat much too large for him, and dirty breeches as well, yet James somehow knew that he would find James ridiculous in his old clothing.

No, he found James ridiculous at all times, did he not? No doubt a joke between the man and his friends, Deniau the murderer and Marechal the pig. Fitting friends for a killer.

“So, you came to Jamaica safely?” Villon’s words were cool, as colourless as his face now that the momentary flush of heat had left it. James jerked, the hand holding the wig nearly letting go to hear the low tones that had been in his dreams for three months.

Perhaps you ought to go to Jamaica. How cold the man was, unfeeling and inhuman, the Devil as he had named himself. For moments in Tortuga, his mind consumed by rum, James had thought Villon to be a man, but he had discovered that to be a foolish dream the moment Villon had pulled away, and James had been left in a pool of sick, his body and head throbbing with pain and want, watching with burning eyes as Villon had tossed money at him as if he was a whore and walked on, shadowed by his faithful dog Marechal. No doubt Marechal had heard every shameful word, every sound from the little alley, and James felt the bile in his throat once more, no longer flavoured with the other’s man seed.

“How d…dare you?” The tightly spoken words came out well enough to make his meaning plain, though he could tell René understood it not. The other man lifted his brows and firmed his grip on his cutlass, a gesture that James knew was meant to threaten.

Unthinking, James leaned forward, keeping his curled fists at his sides through will alone. He wanted to wipe the coolness from that face, the smugness that probably lurked behind those half-closed lids at the gullible nature of the English passenger he had seduced and abandoned. James was just a sad maid in a play now, left by an uncaring villain, and he bared his clenched teeth, knowing that he would die if he knocked the man to the ground as he longed to do. End bleeding at Villon’s feet, watching the man walk on once again, wiping the blood from his sword calmly and trying not to slip in the mess.

God grant him mercy, the image was only too easy to see, and the wig slipped from James’ weakened fingers.

A startled cry reminded him of Ben, and that was all that kept him from moving, though he felt himself leaning to stand in front of the boy. Lids hiding black eyes shot open at that, Villon’s intent gaze snapping from James to Ben and then back to James’ face, the expression behind the dark heat unreadable. One pale hand slid up to rest against his chest, pressing against something underneath his shirt, and James distantly recalled the chain around Villon’s neck. Some golden treasure the man kept to himself, likely.

“James?” Silken tones intruded on his thoughts, and James raised his head without thinking as he had been trained to do. Villon’s eyes left his face, darting to his side, and James was free to track the sound to Etienne St. Cyr, at his left.

Etienne was stepping with an exaggerated daintiness over the piles of old shit and hay on the ground, as if the sandy dirt was any better for his white slippers, and staring at James with polite interest. Only the speed of his approach revealed his curiosity, and James frowned, irritated at being interrupted when he should have been grateful. But he could not force his mouth into a smile, and neither could he forget the man only feet from him.

 “Have you found him?” Etienne demanded, coming to a stop at James’ side.

James blinked to wet his dry eyes, puzzling out the words as if he had never heard French before. Before he could answer, Etienne was tapping his arm with one hand thoughtfully, and gesturing to the wig now lying in the dust.

“Etienne…” James whispered the name as lowly as he could, knowing his temper was visible, somehow embarrassed to have René see him with the other man. But of course the French nobleman ignored it, continuing to pat James absently while turning to René with a slight sneer that made the illness in James’ belly worsen.

Slowly, James let his eyes fall back to Villon, swallowing to see Villon looking at St. Cyr, his face the mirror of what it had been with Carter strung up on the mizzenmast. Uncertainty and fear made James take a step, standing closer to Etienne in much the same way he had stood before Ben, stretching out one arm in a gesture he somehow already knew was foolish.

“Another madman, James?” Villon wondered, loud enough to be heard back in his home country, dropping the hand at his chest to his side. His voice was thick and dry, as if he had not had anything to drink in a long while. But a sudden, tiny smile curved his lips, and it made James want to duck his head and run from the spot as fast as he could. Instead his feet might as well have grown roots, he was so firmly stuck in place. The few other smiles René had granted him had been nothing like this one, even the cruelly mocking shows of teeth on his ship had not bespoke such lust a for blood.

Etienne’s hand still rested on James arm, no doubt forgotten. But James felt the fingers tighten as Etienne absorbed the offensive words, and where René’s look was directed.

“Who does this one claim to be, James?” Again Villon said his name, and James studied him in return, easily imagining the wiry, well-formed muscles underneath the corsaire’s clothing, though he had never seen Villon naked. Despite his sloping shoulders and the tilted angle to his head, René was tense and expectant, his body nearly humming with some feeling, much as it had before he had pressed James to the door and pleasured him. But a warm flush of arousal was missing from the man’s slender features now; he seemed to have been carved from the spotless porcelain of the Orient. “A nobleman?” James jumped at René’s addition, realizing anew that he still had his arm held out though neither man seemed to notice.

James flicked his gaze from Etienne’s exquisitely tailored waistcoat and coat, noting the probable cost of each indigo-dyed thread, to René’s somewhat frayed, scarlet coat, hanging down over his dirtied breeches. Etienne seemed to see that the clothing had not been made for René’s slender body, judging from the pointed way in which he stroked one hand down his veste’s silvered lining and twisted his feet to better stand in one of his odd poses, looking something like a dancer caught in mid-step.

If Villon noticed this play, he gave no obvious sign. Yet somehow James was sure that he had, and he felt his mouth tighten in disapproval at Etienne’s reckless nature.

He need not be here, James thought quickly. This was between the two Frenchmen. He ought to take Ben and leave before blood was spilled. Surely it would be; already Etienne’s fingers were like claws, digging into his arm, and James could see the pearly white of bone showing through the skin of René’s hand where he gripped the sword hilt.

 “King Louis?” René paused, as if truly contemplating Etienne St. Cyr as a madman, his intent look fading into just a knowing gleam in his eyes. “Queen Anne?” he suggested instead, and turned to James, nodding meaningfully at him.

James blinked once at René’s familiarity, then shook his head to dismiss any of Villon’s strangeness. He was mad to think such a thing. But Etienne did not seem to think so, tearing his hand from James’ arm and stepping forward. Like a fool, for he was unarmed, and that had not stopped Villon’s friend Deniau from killing Lord Cavendish.

“What do you say to me, peasant?” Etienne pronounced the words slowly, as though he did not quite believe what he had heard. But it was his final word that made the lightening storm in Villon’s eyes. James had only the time to draw one breath and then Villon bared his cutlass and leapt forward.

“René!” It was surprising to hear his own frantic cry, not because he did not mean it, but because his throat had closed so tightly no words ought to have escaped. His scream did not seem to be loud enough. Surely the man would not hear him when he could not hear himself over his heart’s pounding and Ben’s excited exclamations. But Villon stilled, nearly hovering in the air with the suddenness of his pause, the gleaming steel in his hand flashing the sun’s light into James’ face.

He moved, blinded, hurrying forward until the blade was at his middle and Etienne seemed far behind. It was a strange position to be in, once again looking at Villon with a sword between them; for a moment he nearly thought he dreamed. Then Villon focused bright eyes on him, blinking as if he had the same thought.

“James.” His name followed a single puff of air, Villon’s voice quieting to something for them alone. “You give your life for him? He cares nothing for you.” In English the question sounded lost, hesitation with his every breath, no doubt Villon searching for the right words. But it hardened enough on the final bit for a blacksmith to have hammered on it. James flinched before he could stop himself, abruptly realizing just what he had done, dimly startled that he had not been killed, that Villon had stopped.

“James, are you mad?” Etienne seemed to be feeling the same shock, based on the screeching quality to his voice. But even though Etienne had lost the smooth timbre to his voice he usually cultivated, his authority was still implicit in his tone.

Instantly, James ducked his head. Squeezing his eyes closed and stepping back would not erase his stupidity, no matter how much he might wish it did. But at least he had stopped their quarrelling for the moment. If only he could persuade Etienne to leave, they could go and never lay eyes on René Villon again. That would be best.

“Do you know this man, James?” Etienne was demanding now, and James lifted his head to study the man in front of him. He could feel the criticism in the dark eyes watching him and sank his teeth into his lip, the anger filling him like tide water rushing to meet the paler sand, until he was drenched in it and felt that surely he could not hold anymore.

A martyr, Villon had been fond of calling him, mocking him for his faith, daring him to fight back. Villon pretending to value his opinion and then scorning it before his entire crew, no better than Sir Marvell, no better than Etienne St. Cyr. James was nothing to him.

“Yes.” James answered simply, spitting the words into the dust, feeling a sharpness in his hands.

“Is it La Aranha?” Some tension still roughened Etienne’s voice, though the question was calm enough. Standing so close, James could not miss the startled twitch of René’s head toward St. Cyr at the name.

“You seek L’Aranha?” René asked him, raising his sword. James had forgotten it entirely, and shivered when the tip brushed his coat, though he did not give Villon the satisfaction of moving away.

“Aye.” He nodded, once, and enjoyed the surprise and confusion flickering across the other man’s face. “Another killer you call friend?” he bit out fiercely, knowing he should not speak but driven on. He waited for Villon’s revenge, holding his breath, then exhaling in something like terror when the sword unexpectedly wavered and dropped.

Villon was pulling away, watching James with a frown, obviously displeased with James’ defiance, and James shivered once more, feeling the absence of the sword’s weight keenly.

“René.” Villon’s name, from a stranger’s mouth. James twisted around, searching for the speaker and blinking to see a tall form approaching slowly from behind René, one of those he had been speaking with earlier. This man was easily taller than René though still would stand below James, and was dressed in the short coat and breeches of a sailor, though he had his hair bound up atop his head.

Brown, his clothes were, like the warm, slightly weathered skin of his face and his light, spice-coloured hair, from what James could see of it, and then blinked, dazedly recognizing the pirate from several nights ago who had…who had stared at him with such invitation.

“René,” the man said again, pausing as René’s side and resting one hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. James’s eyes went from that hand back to the intruder’s face and then heard his own gasp when the stranger winked at him boldly, clearly recognizing him as well. “What trouble have you gotten into this time?” the man asked at near the same time. James would have said he sounded amused, but the strange way he spoke the English words left him uncertain. He had almost the sound of a Spaniard, but yet did not.

“Mirena.” The look given to the new man by Villon was hardly welcoming, though the stranger seemed not to notice. Leaning down, the taller man bent his head to Villon’s hair, and though James strained to listen, he could not hear whatever was whispered into René’s ear that made his lips quirk just for a moment. Then Villon’s gaze was back upon him and James had not time to hide his scowl. “Mirena, this man and this…fool are looking for you.” Everyone present seemed to ignore Etienne’s quiet mutterings following that pronouncement.

“La Aranha?” James asked with what he knew was a gaping expression, wondering faintly if all paths would lead him to René. Something slippery slid down his spine at just the idea, something that should have been fear. It was his own madness that it was not.

“Sim. E quem pede?” Abruptly straightening, La Aranha, or Mirena as Villon had named him, shifted, peeling back part of his coat to give them a glimpse of his blade. James blinked at the spate of unfamiliar, huskily voiced words, looking to Villon for explanation.

“Portuguese?” Etienne spoke up again at last.

“The English always want to talk in English,” La Aranha commented at last, in English, and James turned an irritated gaze on the newcomer.

“I am not here to do business with you,” he insisted stiffly.

“Mirena,” Villon interrupted them in a clear voice. “This is James Fitzroy.” James jumped to hear his own name on Villon’s lips then twitched to find both pirates watching him with gleaming eyes. “I do not know the other man,” the corsaire added, an afterthought, and then smiled; to let them all know that he had no wish to.

“Etienne St. Cyr,” James supplied uncertainly, glancing back at Etienne, who had moulded his face in a mask that was both polite and insulting, lips curved in a sneer or a grin, James could not decipher which. Etienne did not extend a hand, barely even nodding his head to acknowledge them. He did not seem to want to speak either, and James had the brief thought of Ben’s stubbornness, though Etienne was no longer a child. “He has business with Sir Marvell,” he felt the need to add suddenly, when the silence went on.

Keeping his eyes firmly on the Spider, James could see the surprised upward twitch of the man’s eyebrows at this news, then the thoughtful little pursing of his lips as he considered Etienne. Then he nodded, fixing Etienne with a strong look. James felt the force of it even though it was directed not at him, and swallowed thickly.

“If you lie to us, menino rico, I will cut you from your neck to your cacete and watch you die.” The man promised Etienne seriously, then smiled broadly enough to show a gap in his front teeth. “If you do not, then we will be as amigos…friends.”

James meant to look at St. Cyr, to see how he took this vow, but found his eyes sliding the other way, returning to Villon at the small tearing sound made deep in the man’s throat.

René spoke not at all, standing as still as a corpse, and just as white-skinned, staring at Etienne with eyes that were bottomless. His throat worked as he evidently tried to speak, muscles playing much as he had when downing his bottles of wine, throwing back his head to lick up every last drop as if they were necessary to his soul. James wondered if he wanted a drink now, then was surprised into a harsh laugh, knowing that of course the man wanted his wine.

Villon’s eyes left Etienne and tried to focus on him, looking like a man waking from a dream.

“Craving your liquor?” James asked harshly, waiting for the other man’s eyes to widen before glancing determinedly away.

“René?” Mirena turned from Etienne with barely a nod, leaning down over Villon in much the same posture as a mother hen, running delicate fingers across his brow as though he were fevered, and James turned back to stare at them, his mouth falling open as he noticed what he had not before, the jut of hipbones curving below the man’s waist as he bent his head to whisper softly to René. La Aranha was not a man at all, but a woman clothed as a man.

“You…” For a moment his breath did leave him and he knew that his eyes were round. “You’re…”

“A…spider?” There was only the slightest pause as she seemed to find the words in English, and then Mirena was grinning, one side of her mouth white and shaped like a crescent moon. Beside her, Villon coughed and cleared his throat, shaken from his stillness. His mouth thinned, and then he coughed again, and James with him, to see her reach down and calmly grab a handful of cloth between her legs and squeeze it like it was…

Averting his eyes, James sought out Etienne, and saw that he was not the only one staring in disbelief, mouth working with no sound coming out. He turned back in time to see how Villon narrowed his eyes and relaxed the grip on his sword, only to imitate her action. But he was not grabbing cloth alone.

The smile James barely even realized that he wore faded at the easy manner in which Mirena regarded that, tilting her head to gain herself a better view of René’s loins. Without even a maidenly blush she raised her hand and placed it on her chest, over where one of her breasts was hidden as just one bump in many folds of cloth. Then she topped even René’s crudeness by grabbing her own breast.

Ben burst out into childish giggles, enough to make James blush to think on the innocent eyes watching this. Looking sternly at the source of their discomfort, James found himself glaring at Villon, who had also swung his gaze away from the woman and who seemed no less irritated by her brazenness, judging from the wrinkles in his forehead as he frowned. Their eyes met and Villon shrugged his shoulders lightly, as if dismissing the actions of his friend. As if he were embarrassed, as if he actually possessed shame.

“Do not…” he began lowly but Etienne touched his shoulder and James bit his tongue in surprise, swallowing the single drop of blood quickly. His hands pained him again and he uncurled his fingers with effort, not pleased to realize that he had marked his palms with his own fingernails his hands had been so tightly clenched.

“I am tired and wish to return to my home.” Etienne announced from nowhere, and James could sense the amusement from the woman pirate and tried to narrow his attention to only that. But he knew Villon was studying him, no doubt surprised to find James standing on his own and not begging for more from him. “We will meet again with Sir Marvell, yes?”

“All of us?” James burst out before he could think better of it and heard a strange sound, something he had never truly heard before. Raising his eyes presented him with the strange image of René Villon laughing, mouth open, teeth flashing as the odd sounds of mirth emerged, low and husky, as if they were just as unfamiliar to René’s own body.

The skin of James’ face and neck heated, even his ears tingling with his feeling, and he resisted the urge to glance at his feet and hunch his shoulders. He would not. Lifting his chin the merest fraction, daring to do even that, he nodded to Etienne and moved his eyes at last.

“Ben,” he called out and felt a warmth at his side. He patted Ben’s fine hair absently and then took a step backward before turning around to follow Etienne back to the carriage. He heard Etienne bidding them a stilted farewell but barely listened, concentrating on walking.

He smiled grimly, pleased that he did not fall or trip, even in his ill-fitting shoes, and that Villon could see that, still standing back near the docks, with the ocean behind him.
 

Copyright R. Cooper with all rights reserved

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