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He muttered and irritably drank from the bottle by his elbow. His eyes, blue and tired, stared at the maps in front of him spread across the large wooden table and could make no sense of what was drawn or written there. He had been at this for hours, trying to find that Spanish galleon with 10 000 reales on board. She had to be there somewhere – his information was good as to that. First hand in fact.
At that he smiled, chortling, and took another swig of rum. Smacking his lips, his mind a little fuzzy – it was late and this was not his first bottle of rum, not by a long shot – he rubbed his sand filled eyes. Glancing out of the stern window he started. It was later than he'd thought. He could just see the edge of the moon. He should have been abed long since. His glance caught the three-candle candelabrum on the table. The candles were more than half burned.
“Damn me...” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. He'd have to do this tomorrow. When his partner came to call. That thought elicited another smile, slower and softer this time. His partner... Staring at the candles, he remembered....
“I know where you can find what you seek, captain,” she had said softly pouring the drink into his cup. He had watched her face, which surely had to be the most beautiful he had ever seen. Every time he caught sight of it, the pit of his stomach fell out, his heart appeared to drum in his chest. He had drunk in her words as if they were life. He had not felt like this for years. Not since – Firmly he shut that thought away. She had left him, gone to her father. That was over and done with. He was here. She was there – across the table from him, studying him calmly but quite aware of the effect her appearance was producing. Women could always rely on their looks if everything else failed.
“Indeed,” he had replied, trying to keep his voice steady as well as his hands. Jesus, just what was going on here?
Gracefully – how else? - she had set down her cup and reached for his hand. He had swallowed, hard, the rum in his mouth and coughed. She had simply watched him recover himself in silence.
“Sorry, lass,” he had managed to say once his fit was over. “Something in my throat.”
She had rubbed his hand by way of reply.
“I should have been more careful. Sometimes men mistake the simplest of gestures,” she had said in her melodious voice. He could have listened to it all day – and night for that matter. Firmly he had steered his thoughts away from that.
“What do you know, senorita?”
“Heard you of La Isla Negra?”
“Si, lo se,” he had replied and watched as a pleasant flush crept up her olive skin.
“You speak our tongue well, Captain Kenway,” she said slowly, pronouncing his name with the rolling syllables of the Spanish people. Absurdly it pleased him. Why was he so off kilter? Just what was she doing?
“The galleon will stop there, to re-supply,” the woman had continued in her deliberate voice. “She will not be alone. It is a convoy – from Mexico to Cadiz. Money meant for His Catholic Majesty.” Her lips had twisted in something akin to disgust at the mention of the Spanish king. He wondered why.... “My own ship is not enough to take on such an endeavour. I have heard, however,” here she had locked her black shining eyes on his and he had found he could not look away or even swallow. He had been held by the magnetism, the force of attraction that he could not deny. This was a woman he could come to respect... and love? Again he had to take himself in hand. Love was a dead word to him. It had left too much flotsam and wrack in its wake for him to swim those seas again. “I have heard that you, Captain Kenway, are the best man for this kind of work. You have a...” she had paused, looking for the right word. “A talent for it. What do you say, Captain?”
“The Black Island,” he had said slowly, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his suddenly dry mouth. “is in British hands. What makes you think they would allow a Spanish convoy to stop there?”
“Since we are to be partners,” she had replied, releasing his hand – which he had not realized she was still holding – and reached into her dress. He had really wanted to wipe his face to take his eyes off her but that had proven to be impossible – and not because of the rum. Because he did not want to. Of course they would be partners. Of course... “We should not hide vital information,” she finished sliding over an envelope whose seal had been broken.
He whistled as he opened it and extracted the letter. The seal had been that of the Royal Navy – from the commander of the fort at Black Island. The letter was from the self-same individual informing the captain of the Spanish galleon that he indeed would be welcomed at Black Island on the 15th of June in the year of Our Lord 1716 as per their agreement at Havanah, with that which had been spoken of in advance on board to be kept at the island fort until the galleon's return. He had re-read that part twice.
“'that which it was agreed would be kept at the island in the fort until you, Senor Lopez, should happen to come back to reclaim it'? Just what is this?” he had asked her, holding out the letter so she could see, although he had an idea she'd read it already and not once. Her face was guarded, now, wary.
“Unfortunately, that I cannot tell you,” she had said sadly, her face closing up – still beautiful, though. “That would place you into unnecessary danger, Captain. Suffice it to say that the thing mentioned will not reach the Black Island on the agreed date.”
“How did you come by this? Who gave it to you?” he had asked, his thoughts finally running in their usual direction. This was business, his business, and he needed information before he would absolutely commit himself, no matter that he would follow her anywhere, any way.
She had shrugged – he'd had to bit the inside of his mouth to keep from moaning – they had business to discuss – and replied with some asperity it seemed, “What matters it? The seal is genuine and so is the letter.”
“Aye,” he'd had acknowledged. “The letter appears authentic – so does the signature. This, however, is Nassau. Forgeries abound. I could find for you, lass, a man who would swear he can write with His Majesty's own hand.”
Her eyes had sought his again, brown-black against the sea-blue, and he had felt his objections falling away. No, not this time. He would have his answers. If they were to be partners...
“I would like to take you up on this, lass,” he had said handing the opened letter back to her in its envelope. “I fear, though, that you are not yet ready for this... partnership.”
“You refuse then?” she had asked, her melodious voice low and said. It played on his heart strings – would he refuse a woman and a beautiful one at that?
“I did not say that,” he had demurred softly, getting up. “If you change your mind, my ship is the Jackdaw.”
That had been three days ago. Since that night at the Old Avery he had not seen her, nor heard any rumour of her. Ships had come and gone. He could not be sure if she had left or was still in Nassau, waiting for him. Or was she even waiting? What if she'd gone to try and find someone else? At that thought, he felt a flash of anger and regret – a jealousy he never thought he would feel. After all, he'd only just met her. She was nothing to him – right?
Groaning he stood up and began undressing. He needed sleep so he could think straight in the morning. He knew enough to go on with. The 15th of June was two weeks off. He'd need to fly full sail all that time to get there before the galleon and ambush the convoy – all by himself. What he did not know was if the information was real – the convoy was real, yes. But the rest of it. Why would a British officer offer a Spaniard hospitality of his fort and island? What was to be kept safe at the Island?
He shook his head, hanging the blue robes on their rack and unlacing his shirt. The summer heat had made it stick to his skin with the sweat of these latitudes. Damn, but it was hot! He sometimes wondered how was it that Nassau did not drown in some disease that would surely eat out the heart of the pirate republic.
It was then that he noticed the agitated flutter of the candle flames, now dancing. The softest of thumps behind him warned him that he was not alone. Someone had walked in the door. It could not have been any of his men. For one thing they would not shut the door with such careful gentleness. For another, none of them wore perfume – at least, not the sweet perfume he could smell on the closed air of the cabin. He really should air it out more often: the extra tobacco and wax stored in the out of the way corner did not help the atmosphere. Still holding his slightly moist shirt he turned to face her.
“Lass, you've changed your mind.” He did not make it a question. He could just make out her outline at the edge of the candle light. She was cloaked, hood drawn up. That reminded him of his allies, the Assassins. One of them might look like that when paying a visit to their victim. For a brief moment he wondered if she was one of them. Then he dismissed the idea. She had not the walk, the stance, that the Assassins employed: that deadly grace of the predator. She was a woman, albeit a special one, a woman who kept secrets. A woman who had somehow got past his night watch.
She took a step forward, unhooding herself and untying the heavy cloak. She let it fall to the floor, revealing a tight red dress, knee high boots of Spanish leather and the face of one who is determined to do something that she knows she would regret later. The dress told him everything he needed to know. The single-ruby necklace around her slender neck sparkled in the candle light with every indrawn breath.
“Lass...”
“Luz,” she said breathlessly, in a rush, as if wanting to get it over with. “My name is Luz.”
“Light,” he translated. “It suits you, lass.” He hung the shirt on the back of the nearby chair, the candle light playing over his tanned skin and the tattoos that covered his lithe upper body. “Somewhere there must be a special man who can be made happy.” Her lips tightened momentarily, a flash of something – bitterness? Regret? Loss? - in her eyes, gone as if it were not there. “Senorita Luz, we can talk about your offer.” He indicated an empty chair. “Por favor, sientese.”
Woodenly, unsure, she slowly approached the table. Instead of sitting in the chair, however, she placed a hand on his chest, a surprisingly steady hand. He froze, his mind momentarily drawing a blank. No, not this. Surely not. Was that not what he'd wanted three days agone, asked a small snide voice in the back of his mind. No. Not this. Not so fast at least. He had had fast women before – not necessarily because he'd wanted to but because they had wanted to. Senorita Luz did not strike him as the fast and loose kind, the kind that inhabited most of the brothels in Nassau.
“Lass... Luz,” he corrected himself instantly as that hand found his shoulder and then the back of his neck. She was pressed against him now. He could feel her shivering, see the tops of her breasts rising and falling. “I am a pirate. Not a rapist.”
She started back, eyes wide. In her world, one was the same as the other. That much was clear.
“You're running, Luz.” He found her eyes and held them. She would talk, this time. “What are you running from?”
She opened her mouth and then shut it. Those oh so red lips begged him to touch them but he restrained himself. Not now. Not yet. If they were to be partners, then trust would have to be established. She had her own ideas of how to do that, doubtlessly gleaned during her upbringing. He had never taken advantage of a woman, nor would he start now. Pirate he might be but wenching had never been high on his list.
“Not from,” she replied in that musical voice he could listen to all the time. “To.” With that she brought his head down, her lips meeting his. He started, his arms circling her out of reflex more than anything else. She moaned against him, her thigh sliding up his leg, causing him to shiver – and not because of cold, not by far.
He moved slightly – she moved with him – lifting her to the table where her legs wrapped around him. Ignoring the warnings in his head, he kissed her face, her eyes, her cheeks, her neck, the soft skin yielding to his touch. He knew what to do to elicit deep sighs and moans from her. She had a need, a driving one. That he could understand. The smell and taster of her as his lips found hers this time – that he could not understand, except on an instinctive level. This was something feminine, something no man could ever unravel. How women did this almost magical thing he would never know, nor at the moment did he want to. It was simply good to feel her wanting him and his own rather gratifying response. He growled nibbling her ear, stroking her arching back. Her long black hair spilled over his arm, a silk waterfall that he could inhale and run his fingers through. She gasped when his tongue found the sensitive places on her neck and shoulders, her arms closed around him, holding him fast. He smiled against her shoulder and then raised his head. Their eyes met, her pupils dilated, her mouth opened a little, her lips thicker.
Her fingers caressed his cheek, the blond beard along his jaw line, her thumb across his lips.
“Luz...”
She hushed him with a gentle kiss and then lay back on the table, her dark hair spreading out across the maps. The candles were close by allowing a better look. He studied the clean lines of her – Jesus, but she was a beauty and no mistake about that! - then fingered the ruby pendant on the gold chain around her silky throat.
“No servant's trinket this,” he remarked, even though his body cried out to take the offering she silently presented. He usually jumped in over his head without looking. But not this time. Senorita Luz had too many secrets for his comfort. Before he went any further – did anything else – he would know. “Was it perhaps a present – a gift – from a loving father to his daughter?” It was a guess. He'd asked around, discreetly of course, but nothing on the Spaniard woman had come up, nothing that he could use for leverage – except the fact that she turned heads wherever she went. He was amazed no one had kidnapped her yet or ravished her at the very least. Usually there was something about someone – this was Nassau where rum and information were sold in equal quantities and qualities. This time, nada. Not a rumour, not a word. Almost as if she did not exist until she'd made her offer. He'd have to use his own wits on this one.
Luz stared at him, silent, only the rise of her breasts betraying any sign of her agitation. Dimly he could feel her rapid heart beat. She was not as cold as she liked to pretend. She must have nerved herself up for this... or had she? She did not appear fragile. There was steel in her.
“A man gave this to me,” Luz finally said, her voice clipped. “A man I thought loved me. He only wanted to control me, to make me an ornament on his arm at his meetings and the balls.” Aye, bitterness there was and plenty of it. He could relate to this at least, somewhat. He shut those thoughts away. A woman's lot was different from a man's, in this life and the next. That he had seen for himself.
“You left him,” he guessed.
“I did,” she said defiantly. “I left when he proposed to give me to His Majesty as a courtesan.” Her tone was clipped, keeping the hurt inside. That too was a familiar sensation. “I made my life as a pirate since then. Better to be free on the high seas than a whore.”
“Indeed,” he said softly, trying to keep the irony out of his voice. “Yet you still wear it.”
She shook her head on that graceful neck. His hand twitched involuntarily. Damn it! He let the ruby drop and stroked her cheek.
“Tonight is the first time I've put it on since I decided to live on my own merits,” she said quietly, leaning into his caress, kissing his palm. He lowered his head to inhale her scent again, caressed her shoulder and arm, his lips just brushing the tops of her breasts.
“Funny,” he said, glancing at her face again. “That I never knew about you until three days ago.”
Her finger nails found his back and dragged along his spine lightly like a cat kneading her claws. He just barely suppressed a groan that would have given him away for sure.
“Funny,” she whispered in his ear, pulling him to her. “how few can find delight in the light.”
Taking her wrists he raised himself to look down at her. “You are Delicia de la Luz?” He HAD heard of that one, a woman pirate who plied the seas of Mexico and Brazil, who rarely missed a chance at sinking a Spanish galleon, let alone a Portuguese or French ship, whose first mate was a giant of an Englishman whose life she'd saved from the gallows at the last moment, some of whose crew were women if such could be believed at all. Women had not the physical strength to tighten the line or pull up anchor. Had they?
Now she did smile, unleashing it on him with a delighted laugh at the stupefied expression on his face, in his sea-blue eyes. For a moment his heart stopped – she was not simply beautiful but gorgeous when she let loose that smile, her oh so dangerous eyes drinking him in, knowing him better than he did himself. How DID women do this to men all the time?
“Why the games, lass?” he asked at last, his hands running over her body and slowly unlacing her bodice. She watched him a satisfied feline countenance, a Spanish kitten who would sink her claws into his skin should he make the wrong move. Her reputation preceded her in that regard. Danger cloaked in velvet. Soft velvet, at that. “Why not just be honest about who you are?”
Luz inclined her head to one side, a coquettish smirk on her mouth. “A man has no need to dissemble,” she informed him, her hands resting on his atop her soft breasts as he slowly worked them. She gasped when he pinched her nipple lightly, one, then the other. They hardened, he was pleased to note, very quickly. “He can simply fight his way out if he is caught.” She raised her slender wrists, her thighs gripping his buttocks firmly. “Do you believe I can?”
He chuckled and taking her wrists kissed them and her arm down to the elbow. Her earlier embrace had been anything but feeble. She was playing him. Well, he could play too, he thought, his mouth enjoying the tenderness of her flesh. She cried out when he pulled hard on her enlarged nipple, her whole body shuddering with the pleasure of it as he began to forget himself in the increasingly pleasurable physical sensations coursing through his body. His own need was making itself felt in no uncertain terms. Damn, that it should happen now, here, with this woman....
Her body rocked with his, sweat and perfume mingled in a cloying miasma that enveloped them both as the passion mounted. She moaned, her mouth open, her eyes shut in ecstasy. She had heard about Kenway's reputation as a pirate and a man of action. His reputation as a lover, however, had been kept a secret, a very delightful secret it now seemed. The impression of him atop her, inside her, was anything but intrusive or violent. He was an experienced lover, taking and giving pleasure in equal measure – quite unlike the reputedly greedy and grasping pirate she had come to recruit as a partner. They flowed together – as a ship would roll across one wave and atop another, cresting and falling. She cried, her back arching into him, her legs straining to hold him fast, her nails making furrows in his tattooed back, her body sliding with his as if made for one another. She cried her need, her drive, her ecstasy, and did not care who or what would hear. This truly was amor – love as it should always be but was not, this joining of two people, two souls, two identities – those who had sought each other or not but who had found each other in the end, through fate or their own choice.
This was her choice, this night, this man, this act. Her own choice, not forced – not on her, not on him. She saw that in those startingly blue eyes of his, his sweat matted hair plastered to his head. Her lips reached his in a soft kiss which he returned, shifting his weight. Her arms fell from about him, flaccid now in the afterglow of sex. Her whole body felt released from tensions and needs. She was free. Each time she did this, she knew she was loosening the constrictions that expectations of others placed on her. She sighed, happy at that thought, and stretched out under him. She heard him laugh, a low rumbling sound and then his hands caressed her and she jumped, realizing that her need was not all spent.
“Kenway,” she breathed, moaned really as he did things to her that truly loosened every part of her self from her body. A sharp gasp escaped her and then she subsided under his gentling hand.
“Easy, lass, easy....”
He watched her relax amid the rumpled sheets of his bunk. How they had ended up there he had no idea and did not want to think on either. Thought had been driven away for a time but now – near dawn if the lightening of the stern window was any indication – it all came back.
“Tell me, Delicia de la Luz,” he asked, rubbing her face with his palms gently, her soft curves molded to him still. He trailed small kisses down her neck and breasts unable to help himself. Focus, damn it! “Tell me, what was this for?” Time to end the game. He'd played along. Now, he wanted answers. ”You are not the wilting flower you pretended to be when you first came in.”
She rested her palms on his tattooed chest and pushed him back off her a little. Her eyes, still glazed, had taken on a more aware look. Slowly in circles Luz brushed her hands across his chest, shoulders and arms. There was not a part of him that had an ounce of fat. He was all muscle, under tender skin many women would envy. A contradiction of a man: fierce, driven, stubborn, arrogant, yet... a good man at the heart of him, a battered heart – that was true – but not inhuman. He would never sell her like a slave, a chattel, a thing to be disposed of. He had a feeling for humanity, even if he would not admit to it. She'd heard of Mara and what he'd done for the girl.
“Luz?” he called her name softly, brushing her hair from her face. She luxuriated in his touch. This was a man to love, from afar and up close. This was a man whose strengths equalled hers. A worthy partner, in battle and in love.
“This is only the beginning,” Luz said, entwining her arms around his neck. She smiled that special smile.
And Edward Kenway smiled back.
At that he smiled, chortling, and took another swig of rum. Smacking his lips, his mind a little fuzzy – it was late and this was not his first bottle of rum, not by a long shot – he rubbed his sand filled eyes. Glancing out of the stern window he started. It was later than he'd thought. He could just see the edge of the moon. He should have been abed long since. His glance caught the three-candle candelabrum on the table. The candles were more than half burned.
“Damn me...” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. He'd have to do this tomorrow. When his partner came to call. That thought elicited another smile, slower and softer this time. His partner... Staring at the candles, he remembered....
“I know where you can find what you seek, captain,” she had said softly pouring the drink into his cup. He had watched her face, which surely had to be the most beautiful he had ever seen. Every time he caught sight of it, the pit of his stomach fell out, his heart appeared to drum in his chest. He had drunk in her words as if they were life. He had not felt like this for years. Not since – Firmly he shut that thought away. She had left him, gone to her father. That was over and done with. He was here. She was there – across the table from him, studying him calmly but quite aware of the effect her appearance was producing. Women could always rely on their looks if everything else failed.
“Indeed,” he had replied, trying to keep his voice steady as well as his hands. Jesus, just what was going on here?
Gracefully – how else? - she had set down her cup and reached for his hand. He had swallowed, hard, the rum in his mouth and coughed. She had simply watched him recover himself in silence.
“Sorry, lass,” he had managed to say once his fit was over. “Something in my throat.”
She had rubbed his hand by way of reply.
“I should have been more careful. Sometimes men mistake the simplest of gestures,” she had said in her melodious voice. He could have listened to it all day – and night for that matter. Firmly he had steered his thoughts away from that.
“What do you know, senorita?”
“Heard you of La Isla Negra?”
“Si, lo se,” he had replied and watched as a pleasant flush crept up her olive skin.
“You speak our tongue well, Captain Kenway,” she said slowly, pronouncing his name with the rolling syllables of the Spanish people. Absurdly it pleased him. Why was he so off kilter? Just what was she doing?
“The galleon will stop there, to re-supply,” the woman had continued in her deliberate voice. “She will not be alone. It is a convoy – from Mexico to Cadiz. Money meant for His Catholic Majesty.” Her lips had twisted in something akin to disgust at the mention of the Spanish king. He wondered why.... “My own ship is not enough to take on such an endeavour. I have heard, however,” here she had locked her black shining eyes on his and he had found he could not look away or even swallow. He had been held by the magnetism, the force of attraction that he could not deny. This was a woman he could come to respect... and love? Again he had to take himself in hand. Love was a dead word to him. It had left too much flotsam and wrack in its wake for him to swim those seas again. “I have heard that you, Captain Kenway, are the best man for this kind of work. You have a...” she had paused, looking for the right word. “A talent for it. What do you say, Captain?”
“The Black Island,” he had said slowly, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his suddenly dry mouth. “is in British hands. What makes you think they would allow a Spanish convoy to stop there?”
“Since we are to be partners,” she had replied, releasing his hand – which he had not realized she was still holding – and reached into her dress. He had really wanted to wipe his face to take his eyes off her but that had proven to be impossible – and not because of the rum. Because he did not want to. Of course they would be partners. Of course... “We should not hide vital information,” she finished sliding over an envelope whose seal had been broken.
He whistled as he opened it and extracted the letter. The seal had been that of the Royal Navy – from the commander of the fort at Black Island. The letter was from the self-same individual informing the captain of the Spanish galleon that he indeed would be welcomed at Black Island on the 15th of June in the year of Our Lord 1716 as per their agreement at Havanah, with that which had been spoken of in advance on board to be kept at the island fort until the galleon's return. He had re-read that part twice.
“'that which it was agreed would be kept at the island in the fort until you, Senor Lopez, should happen to come back to reclaim it'? Just what is this?” he had asked her, holding out the letter so she could see, although he had an idea she'd read it already and not once. Her face was guarded, now, wary.
“Unfortunately, that I cannot tell you,” she had said sadly, her face closing up – still beautiful, though. “That would place you into unnecessary danger, Captain. Suffice it to say that the thing mentioned will not reach the Black Island on the agreed date.”
“How did you come by this? Who gave it to you?” he had asked, his thoughts finally running in their usual direction. This was business, his business, and he needed information before he would absolutely commit himself, no matter that he would follow her anywhere, any way.
She had shrugged – he'd had to bit the inside of his mouth to keep from moaning – they had business to discuss – and replied with some asperity it seemed, “What matters it? The seal is genuine and so is the letter.”
“Aye,” he'd had acknowledged. “The letter appears authentic – so does the signature. This, however, is Nassau. Forgeries abound. I could find for you, lass, a man who would swear he can write with His Majesty's own hand.”
Her eyes had sought his again, brown-black against the sea-blue, and he had felt his objections falling away. No, not this time. He would have his answers. If they were to be partners...
“I would like to take you up on this, lass,” he had said handing the opened letter back to her in its envelope. “I fear, though, that you are not yet ready for this... partnership.”
“You refuse then?” she had asked, her melodious voice low and said. It played on his heart strings – would he refuse a woman and a beautiful one at that?
“I did not say that,” he had demurred softly, getting up. “If you change your mind, my ship is the Jackdaw.”
That had been three days ago. Since that night at the Old Avery he had not seen her, nor heard any rumour of her. Ships had come and gone. He could not be sure if she had left or was still in Nassau, waiting for him. Or was she even waiting? What if she'd gone to try and find someone else? At that thought, he felt a flash of anger and regret – a jealousy he never thought he would feel. After all, he'd only just met her. She was nothing to him – right?
Groaning he stood up and began undressing. He needed sleep so he could think straight in the morning. He knew enough to go on with. The 15th of June was two weeks off. He'd need to fly full sail all that time to get there before the galleon and ambush the convoy – all by himself. What he did not know was if the information was real – the convoy was real, yes. But the rest of it. Why would a British officer offer a Spaniard hospitality of his fort and island? What was to be kept safe at the Island?
He shook his head, hanging the blue robes on their rack and unlacing his shirt. The summer heat had made it stick to his skin with the sweat of these latitudes. Damn, but it was hot! He sometimes wondered how was it that Nassau did not drown in some disease that would surely eat out the heart of the pirate republic.
It was then that he noticed the agitated flutter of the candle flames, now dancing. The softest of thumps behind him warned him that he was not alone. Someone had walked in the door. It could not have been any of his men. For one thing they would not shut the door with such careful gentleness. For another, none of them wore perfume – at least, not the sweet perfume he could smell on the closed air of the cabin. He really should air it out more often: the extra tobacco and wax stored in the out of the way corner did not help the atmosphere. Still holding his slightly moist shirt he turned to face her.
“Lass, you've changed your mind.” He did not make it a question. He could just make out her outline at the edge of the candle light. She was cloaked, hood drawn up. That reminded him of his allies, the Assassins. One of them might look like that when paying a visit to their victim. For a brief moment he wondered if she was one of them. Then he dismissed the idea. She had not the walk, the stance, that the Assassins employed: that deadly grace of the predator. She was a woman, albeit a special one, a woman who kept secrets. A woman who had somehow got past his night watch.
She took a step forward, unhooding herself and untying the heavy cloak. She let it fall to the floor, revealing a tight red dress, knee high boots of Spanish leather and the face of one who is determined to do something that she knows she would regret later. The dress told him everything he needed to know. The single-ruby necklace around her slender neck sparkled in the candle light with every indrawn breath.
“Lass...”
“Luz,” she said breathlessly, in a rush, as if wanting to get it over with. “My name is Luz.”
“Light,” he translated. “It suits you, lass.” He hung the shirt on the back of the nearby chair, the candle light playing over his tanned skin and the tattoos that covered his lithe upper body. “Somewhere there must be a special man who can be made happy.” Her lips tightened momentarily, a flash of something – bitterness? Regret? Loss? - in her eyes, gone as if it were not there. “Senorita Luz, we can talk about your offer.” He indicated an empty chair. “Por favor, sientese.”
Woodenly, unsure, she slowly approached the table. Instead of sitting in the chair, however, she placed a hand on his chest, a surprisingly steady hand. He froze, his mind momentarily drawing a blank. No, not this. Surely not. Was that not what he'd wanted three days agone, asked a small snide voice in the back of his mind. No. Not this. Not so fast at least. He had had fast women before – not necessarily because he'd wanted to but because they had wanted to. Senorita Luz did not strike him as the fast and loose kind, the kind that inhabited most of the brothels in Nassau.
“Lass... Luz,” he corrected himself instantly as that hand found his shoulder and then the back of his neck. She was pressed against him now. He could feel her shivering, see the tops of her breasts rising and falling. “I am a pirate. Not a rapist.”
She started back, eyes wide. In her world, one was the same as the other. That much was clear.
“You're running, Luz.” He found her eyes and held them. She would talk, this time. “What are you running from?”
She opened her mouth and then shut it. Those oh so red lips begged him to touch them but he restrained himself. Not now. Not yet. If they were to be partners, then trust would have to be established. She had her own ideas of how to do that, doubtlessly gleaned during her upbringing. He had never taken advantage of a woman, nor would he start now. Pirate he might be but wenching had never been high on his list.
“Not from,” she replied in that musical voice he could listen to all the time. “To.” With that she brought his head down, her lips meeting his. He started, his arms circling her out of reflex more than anything else. She moaned against him, her thigh sliding up his leg, causing him to shiver – and not because of cold, not by far.
He moved slightly – she moved with him – lifting her to the table where her legs wrapped around him. Ignoring the warnings in his head, he kissed her face, her eyes, her cheeks, her neck, the soft skin yielding to his touch. He knew what to do to elicit deep sighs and moans from her. She had a need, a driving one. That he could understand. The smell and taster of her as his lips found hers this time – that he could not understand, except on an instinctive level. This was something feminine, something no man could ever unravel. How women did this almost magical thing he would never know, nor at the moment did he want to. It was simply good to feel her wanting him and his own rather gratifying response. He growled nibbling her ear, stroking her arching back. Her long black hair spilled over his arm, a silk waterfall that he could inhale and run his fingers through. She gasped when his tongue found the sensitive places on her neck and shoulders, her arms closed around him, holding him fast. He smiled against her shoulder and then raised his head. Their eyes met, her pupils dilated, her mouth opened a little, her lips thicker.
Her fingers caressed his cheek, the blond beard along his jaw line, her thumb across his lips.
“Luz...”
She hushed him with a gentle kiss and then lay back on the table, her dark hair spreading out across the maps. The candles were close by allowing a better look. He studied the clean lines of her – Jesus, but she was a beauty and no mistake about that! - then fingered the ruby pendant on the gold chain around her silky throat.
“No servant's trinket this,” he remarked, even though his body cried out to take the offering she silently presented. He usually jumped in over his head without looking. But not this time. Senorita Luz had too many secrets for his comfort. Before he went any further – did anything else – he would know. “Was it perhaps a present – a gift – from a loving father to his daughter?” It was a guess. He'd asked around, discreetly of course, but nothing on the Spaniard woman had come up, nothing that he could use for leverage – except the fact that she turned heads wherever she went. He was amazed no one had kidnapped her yet or ravished her at the very least. Usually there was something about someone – this was Nassau where rum and information were sold in equal quantities and qualities. This time, nada. Not a rumour, not a word. Almost as if she did not exist until she'd made her offer. He'd have to use his own wits on this one.
Luz stared at him, silent, only the rise of her breasts betraying any sign of her agitation. Dimly he could feel her rapid heart beat. She was not as cold as she liked to pretend. She must have nerved herself up for this... or had she? She did not appear fragile. There was steel in her.
“A man gave this to me,” Luz finally said, her voice clipped. “A man I thought loved me. He only wanted to control me, to make me an ornament on his arm at his meetings and the balls.” Aye, bitterness there was and plenty of it. He could relate to this at least, somewhat. He shut those thoughts away. A woman's lot was different from a man's, in this life and the next. That he had seen for himself.
“You left him,” he guessed.
“I did,” she said defiantly. “I left when he proposed to give me to His Majesty as a courtesan.” Her tone was clipped, keeping the hurt inside. That too was a familiar sensation. “I made my life as a pirate since then. Better to be free on the high seas than a whore.”
“Indeed,” he said softly, trying to keep the irony out of his voice. “Yet you still wear it.”
She shook her head on that graceful neck. His hand twitched involuntarily. Damn it! He let the ruby drop and stroked her cheek.
“Tonight is the first time I've put it on since I decided to live on my own merits,” she said quietly, leaning into his caress, kissing his palm. He lowered his head to inhale her scent again, caressed her shoulder and arm, his lips just brushing the tops of her breasts.
“Funny,” he said, glancing at her face again. “That I never knew about you until three days ago.”
Her finger nails found his back and dragged along his spine lightly like a cat kneading her claws. He just barely suppressed a groan that would have given him away for sure.
“Funny,” she whispered in his ear, pulling him to her. “how few can find delight in the light.”
Taking her wrists he raised himself to look down at her. “You are Delicia de la Luz?” He HAD heard of that one, a woman pirate who plied the seas of Mexico and Brazil, who rarely missed a chance at sinking a Spanish galleon, let alone a Portuguese or French ship, whose first mate was a giant of an Englishman whose life she'd saved from the gallows at the last moment, some of whose crew were women if such could be believed at all. Women had not the physical strength to tighten the line or pull up anchor. Had they?
Now she did smile, unleashing it on him with a delighted laugh at the stupefied expression on his face, in his sea-blue eyes. For a moment his heart stopped – she was not simply beautiful but gorgeous when she let loose that smile, her oh so dangerous eyes drinking him in, knowing him better than he did himself. How DID women do this to men all the time?
“Why the games, lass?” he asked at last, his hands running over her body and slowly unlacing her bodice. She watched him a satisfied feline countenance, a Spanish kitten who would sink her claws into his skin should he make the wrong move. Her reputation preceded her in that regard. Danger cloaked in velvet. Soft velvet, at that. “Why not just be honest about who you are?”
Luz inclined her head to one side, a coquettish smirk on her mouth. “A man has no need to dissemble,” she informed him, her hands resting on his atop her soft breasts as he slowly worked them. She gasped when he pinched her nipple lightly, one, then the other. They hardened, he was pleased to note, very quickly. “He can simply fight his way out if he is caught.” She raised her slender wrists, her thighs gripping his buttocks firmly. “Do you believe I can?”
He chuckled and taking her wrists kissed them and her arm down to the elbow. Her earlier embrace had been anything but feeble. She was playing him. Well, he could play too, he thought, his mouth enjoying the tenderness of her flesh. She cried out when he pulled hard on her enlarged nipple, her whole body shuddering with the pleasure of it as he began to forget himself in the increasingly pleasurable physical sensations coursing through his body. His own need was making itself felt in no uncertain terms. Damn, that it should happen now, here, with this woman....
Her body rocked with his, sweat and perfume mingled in a cloying miasma that enveloped them both as the passion mounted. She moaned, her mouth open, her eyes shut in ecstasy. She had heard about Kenway's reputation as a pirate and a man of action. His reputation as a lover, however, had been kept a secret, a very delightful secret it now seemed. The impression of him atop her, inside her, was anything but intrusive or violent. He was an experienced lover, taking and giving pleasure in equal measure – quite unlike the reputedly greedy and grasping pirate she had come to recruit as a partner. They flowed together – as a ship would roll across one wave and atop another, cresting and falling. She cried, her back arching into him, her legs straining to hold him fast, her nails making furrows in his tattooed back, her body sliding with his as if made for one another. She cried her need, her drive, her ecstasy, and did not care who or what would hear. This truly was amor – love as it should always be but was not, this joining of two people, two souls, two identities – those who had sought each other or not but who had found each other in the end, through fate or their own choice.
This was her choice, this night, this man, this act. Her own choice, not forced – not on her, not on him. She saw that in those startingly blue eyes of his, his sweat matted hair plastered to his head. Her lips reached his in a soft kiss which he returned, shifting his weight. Her arms fell from about him, flaccid now in the afterglow of sex. Her whole body felt released from tensions and needs. She was free. Each time she did this, she knew she was loosening the constrictions that expectations of others placed on her. She sighed, happy at that thought, and stretched out under him. She heard him laugh, a low rumbling sound and then his hands caressed her and she jumped, realizing that her need was not all spent.
“Kenway,” she breathed, moaned really as he did things to her that truly loosened every part of her self from her body. A sharp gasp escaped her and then she subsided under his gentling hand.
“Easy, lass, easy....”
He watched her relax amid the rumpled sheets of his bunk. How they had ended up there he had no idea and did not want to think on either. Thought had been driven away for a time but now – near dawn if the lightening of the stern window was any indication – it all came back.
“Tell me, Delicia de la Luz,” he asked, rubbing her face with his palms gently, her soft curves molded to him still. He trailed small kisses down her neck and breasts unable to help himself. Focus, damn it! “Tell me, what was this for?” Time to end the game. He'd played along. Now, he wanted answers. ”You are not the wilting flower you pretended to be when you first came in.”
She rested her palms on his tattooed chest and pushed him back off her a little. Her eyes, still glazed, had taken on a more aware look. Slowly in circles Luz brushed her hands across his chest, shoulders and arms. There was not a part of him that had an ounce of fat. He was all muscle, under tender skin many women would envy. A contradiction of a man: fierce, driven, stubborn, arrogant, yet... a good man at the heart of him, a battered heart – that was true – but not inhuman. He would never sell her like a slave, a chattel, a thing to be disposed of. He had a feeling for humanity, even if he would not admit to it. She'd heard of Mara and what he'd done for the girl.
“Luz?” he called her name softly, brushing her hair from her face. She luxuriated in his touch. This was a man to love, from afar and up close. This was a man whose strengths equalled hers. A worthy partner, in battle and in love.
“This is only the beginning,” Luz said, entwining her arms around his neck. She smiled that special smile.
And Edward Kenway smiled back.
a somewhat ironic title... "delight of the light"
this was written based on a friend's picture - a fulfilment of a promise (I do hope you enjoy this, sweetie - you know I hate doing this romance shit... *shudder*). I would rather write blood, sweat and steel
but... here 'tis... Eddie Kenway getting down and... well, read and you'll find out
my DA pal's picture is here: feast your eyes, folks:
© 2014 - 2026 altair-creed
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