Under The Black Flag Ch. 01

To the hesitant reader...

If your mind drifts to times of old,

O'er bounding seas to sun-drenched isles,

Where pirates hunt for buried gold,

And Fortune, ever-wicked, smiles,

On women wild and sailors bold;

— So be it, and read on! If not,

If you would rather stay ashore

Than travel seas with danger fraught,

So be it, also! Read no more,

And let me languish here, forgot,

Alone with the reef's steady roar,

A bottle o' rum and a borrowed plot.

Prologue

Some people cannot seem to shake the sea, no matter how far fate flings them from it. Years, decades, even lifetimes, can pass and still their spirits thirst for the endless sea and sky.

Morgan's grandmother had always said she was one of those souls.

"Child, you was born with salt in your chest, God forgive ye," she'd lament. "I blame your no-account, drunk-in-a-ditch, son-of-a-bitch father. What your mother ever saw in him I'll never understand, God rest her soul."

Back then she had paid little attention to her grandmother's ramblings, now they seemed to ring in her ears and hum in her head. The stillness of the earth beneath her feet made her feel nauseated.

"The old witch was right," she muttered to herself. "I should have stayed on the bloody ship."

But there was no turning back. Besides, the inn was not far now.

It felt strange to finally see it again. To round the bend, climb the hillock and find it there, almost exactly as she had left it so many years ago.

She walked slowly down the hill, her heart pounding now almost as relentlessly as her head. There was the coral stone wall, there was the conch shell-lined path, there was the rocking chair on the porch... even the ancient poinciana tree still stood, its scarlet petals carpeting the sand yard.

But something was missing. Morgan's eyes narrowed: They had moved the sign.

She climbed the steps to the front door of the inn, the old porch creaking under her boots. The sign that used to hang above the door was now fastened to the wall.

"The Admiral Benbow Inn," she breathed. The smiling face of the Admiral had been given a fresh coat of paint.

Morgan ran her hand along the bottom of the sign until she felt a sharp notch under her finger. Her lips curved in a strange smile as she stepped back from the sign. She ran her hand over her left shoulder, feeling the line of knitted flesh that marked her first taste of steel.

"I got bitten by a blade too," she murmured to the wooden face smiling at her.

She rolled her shoulders and flexed her chest, straining against the bindings that kept her breasts flat beneath her shirt. There had been a time when she had grown used to them, but she had not had to conceal her sex for many years now.

Suddenly the door of the inn swung open. Morgan's hand went instinctively to her sword, her fingers tense but gentle on the hilt. A young woman poked her nose out and looked around, stepping outside when she saw Morgan's figure.

"What do you want?" She asked brusquely, folding her arms over her chest as she looked the stranger up and down.

Morgan did not bat an eye at the young woman's tone. She knew better than most the perils of being a serving girl at the Admiral Benbow Inn. She offered a warm, disarming smile and pulled a silver piece from her pocket.

"Rum," Morgan said, her voice lowered to a more manly octave.

"Yes, sir," the girl said, reaching for the coin.

Morgan pulled it away sharply: "The finest bottle this coin'll buy, y'unnnastan'?"

"Of course."

Morgan dropped the coin in her hand and stepped inside. She wondered if that drunkard Thompson had learned his lesson with her or if he had tried anything with this young one. She sighed as the girl disappeared through the door into the kitchens.

The door swung on its hinges and the creaking iron pulled her into a distant memory - one that sent a pang through her heart.

Before Morgan could pull her eyes from the door, the serving girl was back with a bottle of spiced rum and a glass.

"Where would you like to take your libations, sir?"

"You still have that porch to win'ward?" She asked.

"Yes, sir," she said. "Follow me."

The girl led her through the old house, chattering on blithely about the view from the seaward side of the inn. Morgan ignored her — each room they passed through brought back far too many memories for her to pay any attention to what she was saying. A slight breeze seemed to follow them, setting the threadbare curtains in motion. Somewhere, a shutter had come unlatched, and Morgan heard it knocking against the window frame.

She glanced into the dining room as they walked past and almost stopped in her tracks. There was a new table in the centre of the room. She should have expected that. Why should they have kept it? Still, she wondered what could have come of the old mahogany table that had saved her life so many years ago.

As they stepped out onto the porch, a gust of salt air brought her sharply back into the present. The young woman bent down to set the bottle and glass down on a long, low table covered with a faded cloth.

"Wait," she commanded sharply.

The girl froze.

With a sharp tug, Morgan pulled the table cloth away. The worn fabric fell from between her fingers as she stared at the wood that lay beneath. The amber timbers were riddled with shot.

Morgan could not keep a smile from her lips. She ran her hands along the pockmarked wood, laughing as if she had been reunited with an old friend.

"Sir?" The girl murmured.

"Aye?" She asked with a chuckle, turning to look at her.

"I take it you know the tale?" She asked, setting the rum and glass down.

Morgan turned her eyes back to the table, her fingers following the trail of shot: "Depends on what tale you're referring to."

"The inn was attacked by pirates," the girl said. "Old man Thompson - he owned the place back then, y'see - he fought them off from behind this very table. Sent them running for their lives, he did."

She sucked her teeth: "Is that the story he tells?"

"You know it different?" She asked skeptically.

"Aye, that I do," she murmured. She sat down heavily at the head of the table and poured herself a dram.

"That ginnal didn't lift a finger to save this place," she muttered as she swirled the golden liquid around. "He was drunk in bed the whole time. I doubt he realised anything had happened at all until the next morning."

"And how would you know?" The young girl asked.

Morgan glanced up sharply at the girl. She took a quick step back.

"I didn't mean any disrespect," she murmured.

Morgan snorted and turned her attention back to her drink. She sipped the dark rum slowly, staring out at the ocean.

But the girl did not move.

"What?" She snapped, turning to face her once again.

"So you were there? I mean, here?" The young woman asked.

"Aye," Morgan said shortly.

The girl stared at her intently, waiting for the rest of the story.

She sighed and nodded towards the neighbouring chair. The girl was seated at the table in a flash, her chin resting on her folded arms.

"You sure you want to hear this story?" She asked. "It's a long tale."

The girl nodded furiously.

"What's your name?"

"Anne," the young woman replied.

Morgan raised and eyebrow and leaned forward slightly: "Very well then, Anne, you'll get your story. But, if I tell you, you have to do something for me in return."

"Like what?" She asked warily.

"I want you to show me around the old place," Morgan replied nonchalantly, "it's been a long time since I've seen the Benbow Inn."

"Oh, of course!" She exclaimed.

"Good," Morgan said, settling back into her chair. "Now, let's see, where to start..."

I. The Benbow Inn

He came on one of those long, summer days when the relentless sun sets the horizon swimming and the surface of the sea hangs like glass. Morgan watched him rise over the hill like a mirage: his shadow stretched out, long and black, over the marl road, and his boots kicking up white dust with each step.

The sand yard was only half swept and Morgan knew she would catch a box if Mr. Thompson saw her dawdling but she leaned against her broom, abandoning her work to watch the stranger come slowly into focus. He walked with the same rolling gait as the sailors on Fishers Row and lugged a great chest behind him.

Not many sailors frequented the Admiral Benbow Inn.

Perched on a craggy clifftop overlooking the sea, the inn was almost half a day's walk from Port Royal. It was more expensive than the harbour inns and distinctly lacking in the sorts of entertainment most sailors preferred.

"Hello," she called out as he approached the stone wall. "Seeking lodging for the night?"

"Aye," he grunted, barely glancing up from the road. "Do you have a room?"

She cast a curious glance over him: Chestnut curls tied at the neck, faded tattoos peeking out from his shirtsleeves, eyes hidden behind lashes the same warm gold as local rum.

"Yes," she nodded. "I'll fetch the master of the inn to see to you."

She abandoned her broom against the tree and made her way inside: "Mr. Thompson! Guest here. Needs lodging."

"Eh? What sort?"

"Sailor, I think."

"A sailor? Damn me. Fucking drunks the lot of 'em," Mr. Thompson muttered, hefting his considerable girth up from his desk.

Morgan had to bite her tongue as she followed him. It was much like hearing the pot chide the kettle.

Mr. Thompson appraised the young seafarer on his front porch, not bothering to hide his scorn.

"And how long will ye be wanting to stay?"

"At least three weeks," the man said, running a hand along the back of his neck. "Til' the Hispaniola makes port."

"The Hispaniola, eh? I know the cap'n. Your name?"

"William Shaw."

"Hmph. Coin upfront. I don't deal with beggars or drunks."

The sailor smiled slightly as he pulled a small bag of coin from his jacket and tossed it at the innkeeper. Mr. Thompson caught the bag and peered inside, his eyes widening as he took in its contents.

"Will that be enough for food, drink and your best room?"

"Indeed, yes, hm, indeed my good fellow," he sputtered. "Morgan, help the gentleman with his chest, eh?"

"Thank you but no," the sailor said firmly. "I'll carry it myself."

"Very well, I'll leave you to it then," Mr. Thompson said, plainly eager to count the money he had just received. "Show him to his room then, girl."

"Yes, sir," Morgan said, rolling her eyes as the innkeeper disappeared into his study.

"This way, Mr. Shaw," she said, her calves flashing beneath the hem of her skirt as she hitched it up to climb the stairs.

The sailor hefted the chest onto his shoulder to follow her and, all of a sudden, found himself struggling to keep his gaze on the stairs instead of the slim hips swaying in front of him.

Morgan led him into the inn's largest room, drawing open the blinds and unlatching the windows to let the cool sea breeze in.

The sailor set the chest down with a grunt and then stretched his back and neck, wiping the sweat from his brow with his jacket sleeve.

"There's a basin just there with fresh water and soap in case you need it," she said, gesturing to a porcelain pitcher and bowl next to the bed. "Can I get you anything to eat or drink?"

"Aye, I'm famished," Will chuckled.

He paused, his head cocked as he took her in fully for the first time. His amber eyes travelled up the line of her skirt, followed the buttons of her shirt between her breasts, along the twisting, dark tresses that spilled across her shoulders, lingered a moment on her lips and then met her eyes. Their colour the uneasy green of the sea before a storm.

"And parched, I'm sure," she said. "The Benbow is known for our planter's punch. I mix it up myself."

"You know the way to a sailor's heart," Will breathed. "I'm sorry, I missed your name."

"Morgan. Morgan Hawkins."

"Morgan," he repeated. His lips curved: "Beautiful."

The smile on her own lips deepened: "I'll let you get cleaned up then and fix your luncheon."

"Aye, thank you," he said, shrugging off his jacket.

Morgan glanced over her shoulder as the sailor tugged his shirt over his head, revealing a rippling torso.

He caught her staring and offered a gleaming grin: "Hurry back, love."

Morgan closed the door behind her and let out a shaky breath. She was beginning to suspect the next three weeks would be more eventful than the last three years.

Assembling a full plate of stewed mutton and breadkind doused in a healthy helping of country butter did not take long. Neither did mixing up a fresh pitcher of dark rum, bitters, pineapple juice and cane molasses. Before heading back upstairs, she took a healthy nip of rum herself, revelling in the warmth it kindled in her stomach.

She did not even bother to glance in on Mr. Thompson as she made her way through the inn - she could hear his snores coming from the study. If her years of working for the man were anything to go by, he would sleep the rest of the afternoon and wake up just in time to order her around a bit before the first customers arrived for supper.

Though the inn was usually sleepy during the summer months, they had a steady stream of regulars who stopped in for food, grog, and a bit of company as they made their way back from Port Royal to the settlements and plantations inland. Most of the traders remembered when it was Morgan's grandmother who had been the life and blood of the Admiral Benbow, and they made sure to treat her well. She knew she should count herself lucky: All things considered, it was a good life. But her mind was always drifting to far-off places and a life that looked very different from the one she was trapped in now. Her grandmother used to blame it on her father's roving blood.

Both hands full, she went carefully up the wooden stairs, half hoping to catch Will without any of his clothes on. But, when he opened the door for her, he was dressed in a fresh shirt and breeches.

He eyed the plate hungrily as Morgan arranged his meal at the table, tucking into the food the second she stepped back from the plate. Clearly 'famished' had not been an exaggeration.

She tipped the dirty water from the basin out the window and collected his clothes to launder.

"Is there anything else I can get for you before I go?" She asked, setting the bundle beside the door.

Will swallowed the last bite of his meal and leaned back in the chair, fixing her with his golden stare: "Tell me, Morgan, can I trust you?"

"That's normally a question young women have to ask strangers, not the other way around."

"Well you're a stranger to me too."

"I'm sure we can fix that."

His teeth flashed in a grin: "Bold lass."

"Is there any other way to be in such a wicked world?"

"Nay, love, and fortune favours the bold."

"So then," she said, propping herself against the table. "Why would you need to know if you can trust me?"

"Let's just say I've got some old friends on my tail and I'm none too keen that they catch up with me."

"Ah. I wondered why a sailor would come all the way out here for a room. So should I be on the lookout for any other seafaring folk?"

"Aye, especially a man with one leg," he said. "Would you do that for me?"

Morgan considered him for a moment: "Perhaps. It depends what you'll do for me."

"I can't think of much you could ask that I'd say no to," he said, his eyes glinting with mischief.

"Where does the Hispaniola sail to?"

"Bristol."

"I want passage."

"You want to go to Bristol?"

"I want to go anywhere that is not this godforsaken rock. If you can promise to get me on that ship, I promise you will know of any sailor who sets foot within half a league of this inn."

"Done."

Morgan smiled: "Done."

She moved to clear his plate when he stopped her with a hand on her wrist.

"You're leaving me so soon? I don't think we're past being strangers just yet."

His thumb made gentle circles on the top of her hand as she put the plate back down. He pulled her into his lap and planted a kiss on her collarbone. She breathed in sharply, her fingers tangling in his auburn curls as his lips made their way up her neck and along her jaw. She nipped at his lower lip and then pulled him into a deep kiss, winding her arms around his neck. She could feel him hardening beneath her and she moved her hips to help him along. He groaned into her mouth and began pulling at the buttons of her blouse. He pushed her shirt open and found her nipples, rolling them between his fingers until she was moaning softly against his lips. Then he looped his arms around her and stood up, carrying her to the bed without ever taking his lips from hers. He lowered her onto the blanket and then stepped back, pulling his shirt off again and letting his pants fall to the floor.

Morgan's green eyes took in every tanned, tattooed inch of him, lingering on the white flashes of knitted flesh that marked where his body had met steel and lead, and won. One scar in particular caught her eye: 'FT' burned onto his shoulder.

"Fugitive traitor," she murmured. "Are you sure I can trust you, Will?"

"I've never laid hands on a lady without her consent and never will," he murmured, his golden eyes fixed on her. "But I won't wear a halter neither and, to some, that's a crime."

She stood up from the bed, registering with no small amount of satisfaction the look of sadness that darkened his brow when he thought she was leaving, and then unbuckled the belt at her waist and let it drop.

"My kind of man," she said, gazing up at him from beneath dark lashes.

With his hands on her cheeks he pulled her into another kiss while her fingers found his cock and began stroking his full length. His hands left her face and pushed her shirt from her shoulders, tracing down the slight curve of her waist until his hands met her skirt. He undid the buttons and pushed it to the ground, before guiding her back onto the bed where he climbed between her legs and pushed his full length inside her.

She wrapped her arms around him, his muscles shifting beneath her fingers as he thrust inside her.

He groaned and turned his attention to the underside of her chin, licking and kissing at the sensitive flesh along her jawline. She moaned again and the sound against his ear almost sent him over the edge. He pulled out and pushed her further up on the bed so that he could kneel between her legs and take her into his mouth. Morgan pressed the back of her hand against her mouth to keep from making too much noise as Will slipped a finger inside her, then another, pushing them in and out as his tongue wound teasing circles between her legs.

Her fingernails dug into the back of his head as she came with a soft cry, her thighs squeezing his shoulders as her body pulsed around his fingers. She pulled him towards her with a hand beneath his chin and he replaced his fingers with his cock, filling her dripping sex completely. With her legs around his waist and her hungry kisses against his mouth, he could not hold out for long. With a shudder and a groan, he came, holding her tightly beneath him as he emptied his seed deep inside her.

He collapsed on the bed alongside her, pulling her against his chest. She traced a finger down the line of his sternum and then along his abdomen, following the lines of his taut muscles until they reached the trail of dark hair that led down to his cock.