JAMES BONNY said something but Anne did not hear it. The tavern was louder now, even louder than it had been before this Calico Jack Rackam’s entrance, but Anne could make out no individual sounds, only a great swell of noise, like the surf, or a gale of wind in the trees.
She straightened, cocked her head a bit, her eyes never leaving Jack, Jack’s never leaving hers. He was teasing her. She knew he would come over, make his introduction. There was no way he could not. But he was holding back, letting the tension build and it was irritating and intriguing all at once.
And then Jack reached around and took up his rum bottle and called to the publican for three glasses, which he took in one hand, all the while his eyes never leaving Anne’s.
With a nod and a soft apology to the company that stood with him at the bar, Jack pushed his way through the men, stepped slowly up to their table. He paused, looking down at them; a tall man, Anne thought, not awkwardly so, but just tall enough to be above average.
“Good evening,” he said. His voice was deep and his tone light. “I had thought there was no one in this place I did not know, but I find you two are strangers to me.” He was ostensibly speaking to them both, even managed a glance at James, but there was little question as to whom he was addressing.
“We ain’t been but two months here,” James Bonny said, sullen, the words coming grudgingly.
“Ah! And I have been abroad for near six.”
“And now we’re off for Barbados,” James added.
“Perhaps,” Anne said, “or perhaps not.” She did not look at her husband as she corrected him.
“Well, in any event, I pray you to allow me to make my introduction. I am Captain John Rackam. It pleases the people here to call me Calico Jack, for my preference in dress.”
With that Jack Rackam bowed, an elegant move, arm across the waist, leg extended.
Anne had seen many pirates bow, indeed it was a favorite means of greeting, but they did it to mock convention, not adhere to it. When the pirates bowed it was with a great flourish, a sweeping of their hats high in the air, bent nearly double at the waist. They bowed in jest, in the same way that they delighted in referring to one another as “Your Lordship” or “Your Ladyship.”
But not Jack Rackam, not then. His bow was elegant, serious, as fine in form as anything one might see in court, and when he straightened his expression was not in the least mocking.
“Good evening, Captain,” James muttered, making some attempt to match Jack’s elegance of tone. “I’m James Bonny, and may I present my wife . . . which is Anne Bonny?”
“The pleasure is mine. It is always a delight to see a new face.”
Jack’s eyes were once again locked on Anne’s. He had no visible reaction to James’s characterizing her as his wife, seemed to take no notice of the special emphasis he put on the words. It was as if he understood their relationship and knew that it had no bearing on him and Anne, as if there was no one else in the room, in the town, in the whole world, but them: Calico Jack and Anne Bonny. “Might I offer you a drink?”
“Well, we . . .”
“Yes, Captain,” Anne interrupted her husband’s excuses, “we should be delighted, would you sit and drink with us.”
Jack nodded, smiled, and with his foot dragged a chair over to the table and sat, facing Anne, with James on his right hand. He set the glasses down, filled them with the dark, pungent-smelling rum, and the three of them picked them up.
“To new acquaintances!” Jack said, and they drank to that.
“Calico Jack Rackam?” Anne said, and her voice came out more husky than she had expected. “You are a well-known figure around this town. I have heard much.”
“I pray you will not believe idle gossip, madam.”
“Been gone these six months?” James Bonny interrupted. “Have you been to sea, then?”
Jack made to speak, but Anne interrupted him, looking at her husband for the first time since Jack’s entrance, staring her hatred at him, an expression she did not think Jack would miss. “Pray, sir, do not be too free in your speech around my . . . husband . . . he is sometimes too free with his own.”
James looked at her and returned her scowl. Then he stood, so fast he toppled his chair behind him. “And I’ll thank you to keep your tongue still. The hour is late. Let us go now.”
“No, sir. Go if you will, but I should like to tarry a bit.”
“I said, let us go. I’ll brook no argument from you, woman!”
At that Anne laughed, quite involuntarily and despite the fury that was raging inside her. James Bonny, playing the overbearing husband! It was a role that did not suit him, one he could not pull off with any conviction, but he was not done trying.
“Damn it!” He slammed the flat of his hand down on the table. “You come with me, wife. I’ll not suffer your lip!”
Jack made to stand. “I fear I am in the middle of something that is not my affair.”
“No, sir, pray, sit,” Anne said, pointing to the chair, and Jack sat.
She turned to James, turned her full-blown fury on him, like the height of a building storm. “If you would have me come, I suggest you make the attempt to remove me by main force.” Her hand crept down her long, smooth leg, her fingertips played over the handle of the dagger she had secreted there. “If you do not dare try, little man, then pray be gone.”
James Bonny stood glaring at her, lacking the courage to do anything more.
At last he pointed a threatening finger at Anne. “I’ll not embarrass myself by dragging you out of here, woman, but we ain’t done with this.” Then, with the precious little dignity he had remaining, he turned and stormed out of the tavern.
She watched him go, watched him push and stumble through the crowd and out the door. Filthy little worm.
And then Jack’s voice, steady, consoling, apologetic. “I would not have wished to start a fight between a man and his wife.”
“There was no man involved, I assure you.” She turned to him, her fury not yet abated. “And you, sir, what manner of rogue are you?”
“The very worst kind, ma’am.” His voice was smooth, his look assured, a man who did not hope to get what he wanted, but expected to. “I am the kind of rogue who breaks poor women’s hearts.”
“Are you indeed?” Anne felt the fury melt away like butter in a hot pan and with it went all thought of James Bonny. “But I think you are not so honest a rogue, for you introduced yourself as ‘Captain’ John Rackam, when I have heard tell that you are but ‘Quartermaster’ John Rackam, second to that wicked pirate Charles Vane.”
“I was that, when I sailed this summer, ma’am. When I exploded the fire-ship under the nose of Woodes Rogers I was indeed quartermaster to Charles Vane. But I return as captain, and where Vane is now I do not know.”
“You deposed him, sir? And how, pray, did you manage that?”
Jack picked up his glass and sipped. “By being a greater rogue than he.”
Anne sipped as well, holding Jack’s eyes over the rim of her glass. “But sure you are yourself a wicked pirate,” she teased, “to depose so great a villain as Charles Vane. Are you not afraid that Governor Rogers will hang you?”
“Hang me? No, never in life, and me an honest merchant captain. But for any sins I might have committed, I believe the governor has extended a pardon, for them will take it. Besides, if there is to be war with the Spaniards, the worthy governor will need all the fighting men he can muster. I reckon on a privateering commission soon. Then any piracy becomes all legal, like.”
They were silent, but it was not the awkward silence of two who have exhausted their conversation. Rather it was a charged silence, crackling, as if their communication had moved to a place beyond words.
“Then you shall be a great hero,” Anne said at last, soft. “Another Drake, I’ll warrant.”
They were speaking words, but the words had nothing to do with what they were conveying to one another. It was all sex play, it was something entirely new to Anne. Jack was arousing her with his eyes, the cadence of his meaningless banter. She felt herself flushing, felt hot, feverish, as if a big fire had suddenly been stoked up in the middle of the room.
She put her glass down, leaned over the table, leaned close to Jack Rackam and Jack leaned close to her. “I think you will not break my heart, Calico Jack Rackam.”
They stumbled up the narrow, rickety stairs, giggling, running hands over one another, bouncing off the thin walls. Anne was full up with rum, full of desire. She wanted only to peel her clothes off, to rip his off, to feel him all over her.
Up onto the second floor and down the hall, filled with the sound of couples copulating behind thin walls. Anne felt her own need swell.
She stopped in front of her door, let Jack run his hands behind her neck, kiss her deep as she fumbled for the latch. James Bonny might be in there, she realized, his scrawny form might be huddled under the sheets of their bed, but Anne did not care.
She could not think straight, could not reckon on what she would do if her husband was indeed there, did not think about it at all. Her head was whirling and she could not think.
She pushed the door open, stumbled back into the dark room. Jack’s breath smelled of rum and tobacco as he explored her mouth with his tongue. Moonlight streamed in through the unshaded window, casting the room in a blue light.
James Bonny was not there.
Jack’s hands ran along her waist, over her breasts, compacted as they were by her bodice. His fingers moved expertly over the laces, loosened them and peeled her clothes away as she shucked his coat off his broad shoulders and worked the buttons on his yellow waistcoat.
She was breathing hard already. She reached behind her head, pulled off her mob cap and pulled the pin from her hair, letting all of her long yellow locks tumble free.
Jack moved with authority, with assurance, as he gently pushed her bodice and her shift off her shoulders, let them fall, caressed her breasts with calloused hands, gently pinched taut nipples between strong fingers.
Anne pulled at the buttons of his shirt, fumbled, her hand shaking. She could not get them loose so she grabbed either collar and pulled, ripping the buttons from the fabric, pushing the torn cloth aside. She ran her hands through the dark, curly hair on his chest and over his lean stomach.
How long have I pictured this moment? she thought. In her most erotic fantasies it was just this: a shoddy room, a buccaneer, tall, wellformed, handsome, a man who would be rough and gentle all at once, a man who knew how to please a woman. A dangerous lover.
In her more rational state she assured herself that such men did not exist, that the pirates were all a depraved and brutish lot.
And yet here he was, her fantasy, made flesh. Calico Jack Rackam. There could not be another like him.
Jack hooked her skirts with his thumbs and pushed down and suddenly she was naked, petticoats and shift and bodice piled around her feet. It was a wild and new sensation, something she had never experienced, standing naked before a man as he explored her body and she his. Her head swam with it.
The cool air came in through the window and played over her flesh and she shuddered, just slightly. Jack wrapped his arms around her, attacked her neck with his lips, ran his hands down her back, over her buttocks, pulled her close.
She could feel his cock through the fabric of his breeches and she fumbled with his sword belt but he pushed her hands aside and in a few swift moves dropped belt and breeches and stockings. He swept her up, carried her over to the bed, laid her down, and lay down beside her.
Anne was on her back, arching, expecting Jack to mount her, wanting desperately to have him inside, but he did not. He ran his hands over the length of her body, covered her with little kisses, caressed her breasts, explored her with fingers and tongue. She squirmed under him, moaned loud, felt the pressure building, building, thought she could not endure it a moment more.
It was all new, like losing her maidenhead again, but much, much better. Anne had not even suspected that such a degree of pleasure was possible, had never imagined that a man could understand so well how to please a woman.
She wrapped her hand around the shaft of his cock, stroked him, listened with satisfaction as he breathed louder, moaning himself, his kisses growing in passion and strength, his hands groping her just rough enough to be exciting.
“Oh, Jack, Jack, pray, make love to me,” she moaned, certain she could bear no more. She rolled on her back again, pulled him to her, but he guided her up from the bed, lay back himself, gently moved her over him.
She understood at once what he wanted, though she had never conceived of making love in such a fashion.
She straddled his hips with her strong thighs and guided him into her and slowly, slowly, began to move, up and down, and he began to move against her.
Her head lolled around in a circle and she moaned, feeling her long hair tickling her skin.
It was all so wicked: the tavern, the adultery, these new ways of fornicating, and with a pirate, the genuine article, fresh from the sea! The sensations and the rum and the sinfulness and the novelty of it filled her up, like a barrel packed tight, bursting at the seams, threatening to explode.
Her legs were beginning to tire but she could not stop. Rather, she moved faster, relishing the burn of her muscles. She leaned forward, put her hands down flat on his broad chest and he reached up and caressed her breasts as she and Jack moved together, faster and faster.
Anne felt her thick hair tumbling around her head. She swept it out of her face and her moaning became rhythmic, in time with their motion. She felt her whole body compressing in, tighter and tighter, as if she would collapse in on herself.
And then, out in the hallway, footsteps, and Anne listened as her whole body jarred up and down, listened as the steps stopped outside the door, listened as the latch lifted and the door swung open, slow, careful.
She stifled a scream of pleasure. The thought of James Bonny standing there, watching her, watching them, made her wild, drove her to a new plateau of excitement.
She bounced hard on Jack’s hips and then threw her head back again and screamed, screamed with absolute abandon. She felt as if her body, compressed in on itself, was bursting out now with release, as if all the parts of her were flying out in a thousand different directions.
Under her she heard Jack groaning loud, felt him explode inside her and she collapsed on his chest, heaving for breath, sweating, her sweat mingling with his, their slick bodies pressed together.
She heard the door close, heard the footsteps retreat down the hall.
For a long time they just lay there, Anne on top of Jack, warm with pleasure, letting their heaving breath subside. They were both coated in sweat, lathered up like race horses. Anne felt as if her skin was melding into Jack’s.
Finally Jack moved, ran his fingers through Anne’s tangle of hair and down her back and gently over her bottom.
“Anne, darling,” he whispered, soft, careful to preserve the mood, “was that your husband?”
“Not anymore,” she sighed.