Mercy had spent hours confiding in her old nanny, telling her all about the stern captain who had conquered her heart and taken it captive. For Mercy, it was worse than the fate she’d have suffered at the hands of slavers trading in human cargo. At least with them she would have had the will to fight back.
“Do not fret. Yer son will be well loved,” Sairy declared. “Loved by you, loved by me – an’ loved by the soul of the woman who gave life to ’is father. Now ye need to prepare yer body to do the work we wuz born to do as women.”
Sairy began brewing new potions, ones designed to coax her mistress into eating despite the nausea she felt. When Mercy paced the halls in the darkness, her old nanny was there to comfort her. Many a sleepless night they spent together, staring into the scrying mirror to divine the future. They watched the unborn child grow to manhood in the mirror, looking so much like his ruggedly handsome father.
Mercy took to riding in the carriage every afternoon with Mr. Sprague, heading for Blackbeard’s Tower. The lower portion of the old stone tower was cool and dark, a welcome refuge from the heat of the tropical sun. A large open space, it was designed to store cargo and supplies between voyages.
Over the years it had been home as well to the countless treasures the old man plundered during his years at sea, kept there till he found a safe place to bury them. Mercy often wandered around the empty room, touching the walls, absorbing the memories they held.
Later, with Mr. Sprague following like a mother hen, she would climb the narrow spiral staircase to the private sanctum at the top. From that vantage point, the highest spot in all of Charlotte Amalie, she could see approaching vessels long before they arrived in port.
Mr. Sprague waited patiently outside the door as she paced the round tower for hours at a time, going from window to window hoping to catch a glimpse of the Queen Anne’s Redemption far out to sea. She knew the ship would return, if for no other reason than to rescue the first mate from his duties as bodyguard to a gaggle of females.
She felt close to James there in the tower. It was filled with his possessions, each one carrying his essence as surely as she carried his offspring. She would sit at his desk, holding his pen, his books – feeling once again the touch of his hand through them.
***
For James, the voyage to St. Thomas passed in a blur. The kidnapped women all crowded into his cabin for the return trip, making it impossible for him to be alone with Mercy, which suited him just fine. He couldn’t fall prey to her spell while they were chaperoned by a dozen simpering females, all constantly yammering – either thanking him or praising her.
As for Mercy, she said very little the few times they were together. Giving up the nun’s disguise, she’d dressed in a silky short-sleeved lavender frock. It showed off her figure to full advantage, but for James it didn’t matter what she wore.
All he had eyes for when he looked at her was the outline of her lush full breasts with the pink nipples that hardened when he licked them and a soft patch of dark curls lower down that led to the hot, tight center of her. So he made it a point to look at her as little as possible. He sent Mr. Sprague to check on them daily and deliver their meals.
James occupied his time on deck with the crew, days spent in the hard physical labor maintaining a ship demanded, and nights spent gambling and drinking himself into oblivion.
Her gentle goodbye when they reached St. Thomas nearly did him in. He knew her well enough to realize how much it cost her, and he hated himself for being such an ass. But he couldn’t give up the protection of his façade as the stern commander.
He refused to meet her eyes when she left, so she never caught a hint of the unshed tears he held back by iron will alone.
Several months passed as James made his way around the ports of the West Indies, selling off his cargo and taking on new goods to trade.
At every port, he made it a point to frequent the local whorehouses. Sometimes he bid two women at a time join him in his lusty pursuits. But no matter how often he buried himself in a willing female, there was something missing. James discovered that once he’d spent his seed, he could barely stand the sight and sound of them.
He found himself endlessly thinking about Mercy, both in her guise as the outspoken Sister Bertilde and then later, during the hours they spent in heated debate over all sorts of topics. She had strong opinions on everything from literature to local politics. At night, he dreamt of her touch, dreamt of that moment when the pious nun was transformed into his passionate lover. He compared every woman he lay with to her, listening in vain for the soft cries of arousal that brought him such pleasure.
So foul a mood was he in that he spent days alone locked in his quarters. But everywhere he looked in the cabin, he saw her, heard her. Laughing as she trounced him in a game of chess, waving her arms wildly as she made her point in an argument, spinning entrancing tales for his amusement to fill the long hours he spent fighting the fever.
James decided to seek her out one last time when he went back to St. Thomas. He assured himself his memories of her had grown to the realm of legend, like the size of a fisherman’s catch that was hooked then lost, growing larger with each retelling of the tale. Once he saw the real woman again, he told himself, all her considerable flaws and foibles would flood his mind.
Drowning forever the image he carried of a woman who, though not perfect, was perfect for him.