The Pyrates. George Fraser MacDonald
grey eyes were turned on her as he asked, in his best orderly officer manner: “Any complaints?”
Any complaints! The words seemed to turn her shapely knees to buttermilk, but all she could do was shake her head again dumbly, at which he nodded in a way which clutched at her heart. As he turned away she found speech, huskily: “Captain Avery?” He paused inquiringly, and the gentle lift of his moulded eyebrows hit her like a battering-ram.
“I have not been able to thank you,” she breathed, “for saving me from the whip, the day we sailed. Why did you?”
He frowned. “Didn’t like it. Not British. Cruel.”
Sheba considered him. “Cruelty can have its uses,” she husked, gnawing her lip and smouldering a bit, but Avery didn’t notice.
“Anyway,” he said, fair-mindedly, “that blighter Blood was the first to help you. Just shows, he can’t be all cad.”
Sheba’s lovely lips writhed in a sneer. “He had his reason, as you saw just now. Were I old and withered, instead of …” Here she let actions speak louder than words by doing a gentle bump and grind, “… they could ha’ flogged me to mincemeat and he’d not have lifted a finger, he.” And she called Blood a horrid name.
Avery pursed a doubtful lip – after all, Blood did hold the King’s commission, and that sort of talk from a person of her class struck him as subversive. But before he could chill her with a mild reproof, Sheba had glided forward as far as her ankle-chain would allow, and repeated in that hot sandalwood voice:
“I have still not been able to … thank you, captain.” And she made a little helpless gesture with her fetters which would have won her a contract at Minsky’s. “These chains …”
“What about ’em?” said Avery innocently, and stepped closer to look. The great sap couldn’t see what was coming; he was all off balance as two slim dusky hands were raised to caress his cheeks, two amber-flecked eyes gazed into his, and two crimson lips were pressed fiercely against his mouth – you wondered for a split second if she was going to strangle him, didn’t you? Not Sheba. She was giving that sudden embrace all she had, which was plenty, since she had had lots of practice. Whereas Avery, apart from his brief session with Vanity earlier on, was a total novice. Consequently, the effect on him was electric. For a moment he was petrified, and then jungle drums began to throb in his ears, ritual fires blazed up, fogs of musky incense swirled through his senses, erotic cymbals clashed, and he found himself inexplicably thinking of silk cushions and Turkish Delight, of all things. He drew back in some confusion, disengaged her hands, and automatically adjusted his neckcloth.
“That,” he said, slightly hoarse, “was not necessary.”
“That,” panted Sheba, her eyes like open furnace doors, “is what you think.”
What an odd woman, thought Avery. Barbarian, of course, just expressing thanks in her primitive fashion. Rather touching, and indeed not unpleasant, in a peculiarly disturbing way – just for a moment, there, he’d felt a sort of dizzy, hypnotic attraction … in fact, he still did, even at a range of four feet. Extraordinary … yet how curious that he who had never been kissed before this evening, should be embraced by two women within an hour. Vanity would be vastly amused when he told her … or then again, perhaps she wouldn’t. The dear child might not understand that the touch of her sweet lips was utterly different – pure, exquisite, holy bliss, quite unlike this savage creature’s crude display of gratitude … yes … very different …
Now that he looked at her, this black female was quite striking, if not altogether seemly in appearance. Very tall girl – and how oddly she was regarding him, with that intense stare while she licked her lips and growled deep in her throat. Captain Avery swallowed; he was feeling that dizziness again. Very close down here; he needed a breath of air. Abruptly he turned about and left the orlop.
Black Sheba stared after him hungrily, her eyes heaving and her chest smouldering (just by way of a change). Then she relaxed, a feral, enigmatic smile playing about her chiselled lips as she reclined on her bed of straw. Playing hard to get, eh, she thought … but not for much longer, you gorgeous Greek god, you. Any minute now, buster, any minute.
Meanwhile the object of her unholy passion was leaning against a bulkhead some way from the orlop, muttering “Phew!” and shaking his head to clear it, when he became aware that Colonel Blood was sitting with folded arms on a nearby cask, head cocked and a dirty look in his eye.
“Now what,” wondered the Colonel, nodding towards the orlop entrance, “have you got that I haven’t?”
Avery straightened. “Decency, perhaps?” he replied frostily, and his gesture invited the Colonel to precede him up the companion. Blood rose lazily.
“Faith, is that what ye call it?” he reflected as they went up. “Well, ye didn’t take much advantage of it. Ye’ll regret it, in your old age, see if you don’t.”
“My only regret,” said Avery, “is that necessity compels me to consort aboard this ship with such lewd scoundrels as you.”
“You can mend that as soon as you like,” said Blood. “Or does your courage stop short at hitting from behind?”
Avery was before him in a flash, all icy contempt. “When we touch dry land at the Cape, sir, I shall accommodate you face to face, with what weapons you choose.”
Blood looked him up and down (and until you’ve seen Blood’s eye travelling north and south you don’t know what provocative insolence is.) “The number of times,” he drawled, “that some coxcomb has said to me that he’ll meet me next week, or next month, or the first Shrove Tuesday in leap year – and when the time comes, damme if I haven’t had the ground all to meself. I see that ye’re another lad … of promise.” And he turned on his heel at his cabin door.
Crimson mantled the flawless cheekbones of our Hero, and his jaw set like frozen yogurt. He spun the Colonel round with steely fingers. “That taunt becomes you, coward,” he grated. “Well you know ’tis impossible we should meet aboard ship. Affairs of honour are not settled so –”
“Why not?” grinned Blood. “There’s a stern gallery yonder where none should hear us – faith, it’s familiar ground to you and your paramour – the blonde one, not the darkie –”
Schooled in imperturbability though he was, it took Avery all his time to suppress a yowl of fury. His eye flamed, and the colour drained from his face to his ankles. “With you on the instant!” he snapped, and strode into his cabin for his rapier.
Now what, you ask, is crafty Thomas up to? It cannot be that he is intent on repaying the merited buffet bestowed on him by Avery for getting fresh with Captive Africa. No way; Blood is used to chaps taking swings at him. Nay, he is needling Avery in furtherance of some dark design, to wit – if they cross swords on the stern gallery secretly, and Blood can give Avery the mortal stuck-in and heave his corpse into the main, he can then snaffle the Madagascar crown. And next morning, when investigation takes place, who is to point a finger at T.B.? Poor Avery, he must have fallen overboard in the night; too bad – that will be the official version, and if Tom can’t keep the crown safely secreted until they reach the Cape, he isn’t the man he thinks he is. Thus did the cunning rascal reason as he repaired to the stern gallery with his own rapier, to find his stalwart antagonist awaiting him wi’ unbated tuck.
They faced each other on the narrow gallery in the moonlight, the ship’s bright wake creaming beneath them. “When you fall,” said Avery sternly, “I may be hard put to it to explain why we met thus irregularly, but it sorts not with mine honour to let you live who have sullied a fair lady’s good name with –”
“Save it, son,” said Blood coolly. “Any explaining will be in good hands – mine. You can kiss it goodbye.” He was grinning and snaking his blade in and out á la Rathbone, and Avery drew himself up, very academic as you might expect, and slid a foot forward into the attack, his eyes like chips of solid helium.
Well, you’ve seen it before –