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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: NC-17. Bondage, mild d/s.
Pairing: Will Turner/Bartholomew Roberts/Robert Cochrane
Feedback: Anything from spelling errors to concrit.
Disclaimer: Not mine, except for Lord Robert Cochrane.
Notes: Bartholomew Roberts was a real historical figure that I’m borrowing; for the purposes of this fic, he looks like Ioan Gruffudd. Robert Cochrane is an OMC that looks like Clive Owen. Most of the history here is mishmash and there’s supernatural stuff thrown in as well.
Summary: Will visits the new Governor of the Bahamas and settles a few matters with Rob.
***
Pursing his lips, Bartholomew silently shuffled the papers together into a thick bundle. He took as much care in keeping from accidentally scraping off the numerous seals that dotted the documents as he did in handing them back to Jack, which he accompanied with a little bow. Since the last time Will had seen him, standing on the dock of his newly-acquired governorship, he’d greatly improved his wardrobe and now stood fitted in silks and linens that rivaled those of any dignitary Will had ever met. And Will had made the acquaintance of quite a few due to his profession. But for all their quality, they still retained the elegant black and white tones of their first meeting, which somewhat reassured Will.
In contrast, Jack had clearly been digging in the plunder of their latest capture and was tricked out in red velvet and gold lace. Normally he didn’t bother for the heat made velvet an insane thing to wear, but Bart was an old friend and sometime bedmate, and now a British governor. “So?”
“Your papers are all in order,” Bartholomew pronounced with utmost gravity. He held out his hand, expertly twisting it to flick the lace out of the way, and made another little bow. Jack did likewise as they shook. “You are hereby granted free anchorage in the harbor, rights to governmental stores and permission for your men to go ashore. Welcome to the Bahamas.”
Like dancers in a minuet, they let go of each other’s hands and backed away; even Jack had restrained his sway in the solemnity of the moment. Then Bart grinned, the old pirate lurking from beneath all the finery, and conjured up a hipflask of what, when uncapped, smelled like the finest Jamaican rum. “Thank God, Jack. It’s getting a bit tricky to falsify letters of marque.”
“Ah, well, depends on your sources…and I see you’ve bested me where concerns one area…”
Once Jack had thoroughly launched himself into the conversation, Will took the opportunity to slip out the door. He stopped by his cabin to gather his best sword, a bag from under the mattress, and a decent cloak before going in search of Anamaria.
She was down in the hold giving the crew a last tongue-lashing before they were turned loose on shore. Normally this would be a time of secret worry for her, Will and Jack, but they’d had plenty of plunder days ago and the men seemed too sated to wreak much havoc. And by this time, Jack had more or less sifted out the bad seeds, so on the whole Will expected to nearly all of them return to the Pearl before they sailed.
“…an’ th’spirits take you if you ain’t been listening to me, an’ you know all of you which I’m not talking of the kind in a bottle.” Anamaria stalked slowly from one side to the other, balefully examining their faces. After she’d satisfied herself with how terrified they were, she slung hands on hips and jerked her head at the stairs. “All right, off with you.”
Will made his way past the jubilant crew and smiled as harmlessly as he could at her. “I think you’ve put the fear in them well enough.”
“Oh, there’s never enough fear in men. But that’ll do, I reckon.” She eyed him the way a man would when sizing up a whore for the night. Then she looked away and laughed, pushing herself from the shadows to saunter almost flirtatiously around him. “Come to beg leave yourself?”
He didn’t have to ask her for permission, but seeing as he was counting on her to hold order in his place, it would be helpful to have her on his side. So Will widened his smile, palmed a tiny dagger he’d managed to make the last time he’d gotten at a forge, and when she passed him again he slipped it to her. “As lovely as it is here, I think I could do with some land-air.”
“Never lost your liking for that.” The look she shot him was unexpectedly incisive. But a moment later, Anamaria apparently repented and smacked his arm. “Oh, get on with it. I ain’t going to protest—it’s about time someone turned Jack down for good. His head’s too damn big as is.”
“Suppose it’s just as well that he takes the other position half the time, then,” Will laughed. He did so without rancor, for he did love his wayward captain in a way. So did Anamaria, though she hadn’t quite forgiven Jack for her boat or for having Elizabeth before her.
Probably wouldn’t till the day she died, Will thought as he climbed the steps. He emerged into a brisk breeze that whipped his hair about his face and into his mouth. Spitting, he pulled it out, only to startle when someone whispered right next to his ear.
“You look like a maiden from behind.”
When Will turned around, there was Bart standing lightly on the deck, hat off so the sunlight sleeked his black tail of hair. “And you look a bit like a raven. Is that a new regulation for officials of the Crown now?”
Bart winced theatrically and took Will by the arm. “No, but they do insist on a certain style, even when the governor is actively engaged in fighting off the French and the Spanish. Black lessens the risk of my being shot on deck. Even if my men are starting to call me Black Bart, which is an uninspiring nickname.”
They strode down the gangplank and into a bustling, thriving town that very nearly concealed its dedication to the savage war three countries were waging in the region. Only a surplus of nondescript men carrying swords betrayed the fact. Will nodded at one of them. “No redcoats?”
“I tried a few troops, but they’re woefully unimaginative in a fight and I can’t hold the hand of every single one of them. Passed them over to Rob and recruited some of my old crews.” Hidden by the billowing of his coat and Will’s, Bartholomew’s hand was stealthily daring a stroke here, a touch there. He leaned over to nudge Will around a turn and lingered slightly longer than was strictly necessary. “The clothes do come off, you know.”
“And no matter what you put on him, a pirate’s still a pirate,” Will answered, amused. He slapped Bart’s hand away from his coin-pouch, whereupon the other man grinned and shrugged, and then reached up to tug loose his cravat. Damned things; after the first time he’d put one on, he’d given thanks that he hadn’t been born to it and had promptly resolved to wear them only when Elizabeth had backed him into a corner.
Bart’s eyes drifted to the skin Will had just bared. The teasing glint in his eye turned rather more familiar. “So what kind of hospitality can I offer the first mate of the famous Captain Sparrow?”
For the moment, Will refrained from answering in favor of changing the subject. He usually spent his time watching Jack or Elizabeth catch the eyes, and now that one pair was focused on him, a strange urge to draw it out had arisen. “Rob’s leading marines?”
“Oh, yes. Commodore Norrington is both surprisingly efficient and subtle—he sent us some disgraced Scots and they grovel at Rob’s feet while he tells them they’re not worth the shit on his bootsoles. Then he hacks off somebody’s head in a battle and they nearly swoon from sheer adoration.” By now they were approaching what appeared to be the Governor’s house, but instead of leading Will to the imposing front, Bartholomew pulled him down a sidepath. Tall thick hedges on either side hid them from view. “No wonder his father threw him out. He’s too damn good at killing people.”
“Scots?” Will asked.
They’d stopped in the middle of the path and for some reason, Bart was tugging off his coat. Once he’d accomplished that, he rolled his shoulders and swung his arms around with a sigh of relief. “God, it’s hot today. Yes, Scots. Rob’s mother was Scottish—second wife of his father’s, some kind of treaty marriage. Not a happy one.”
“So you’ve met Norrington.” Will had taken Bartholomew’s coat for him and busied himself with folding it up.
“A proper Englishman—I can see why Jack would’ve taken up that challenge. But oddly enough, he has commonsense.” Bart finished stretching his arms and folded them behind his head. He looked up at the dazzling sky, then slanted his eyes at Will. “He missed you.”
There was nowhere to put down Bart’s coat, so Will finally stuck it beneath his arm along with his package. “Norrington? He gave me sword lessons when I was younger, but—”
“No, Robert missed you.” A curious look came over Bart’s face as he dropped his arms and stepped very close to Will. It was half-puzzled…half-irked, or rather having the possibility of being irked very soon. “Not Norrington, unless Jack’s bent him far more out of shape than I had figured on…
“He did, did he?” Eyebrow raised, Will made no move. Fingers were lightly walking their way up his arms, but he held still and continued to look straight into Bart’s eyes. “And you?”
“I think you’ve turned into a bit of a provocateur, damn you.” Then Bart seized Will by his coat and yanked him in to a deep, savage kiss.
* * *
“I would’ve thought the settled life would have taught you to appreciate savoring pleasures,” Will mock-scolded. He tossed his bundle and Bart’s coat onto a chair before fumbling at his sword-belt with fingers made clumsy by haste.
Various pins and lace dropped onto the chair. Bart shrugged out of his waistcoat and tossed it on top, then pulled up his leg to brace his boot against the chair. He flashed teeth at Will’s raised eyebrow. “I’ve got more fancy chairs than I know what to do with—the Spanish certainly like their furniture.”
Bent like that, he showed a smooth beautiful curve of arse against his tight trousers. Will carefully stood his sword against the wall before moving up behind Bart and molding his hands to that taut flesh. He could see one eye of Bart’s, and it was slowly closing with a coy flutter of lashes; the other man dropped his hand and languidly pushed himself back against Will, arching himself to apply even pressure down the line of Will’s cock.
“So the Governor is enjoying himself?” Will tiptoed his fingers along Bartholomew’s sides, which he knew were desperately ticklish. At the first squirm, he yanked out the other man’s shirt and slid his palms over Bart’s back, feeling the play of the muscles there. From the right shoulderblade to the sixth rib on the left side trailed a long white scar. It was slightly raised beneath Will’s fingers, rough but not unpleasantly so. And it seemed to be quite sensitive.
“The Governor is very successful, certainly.” Soft thud as Bart pulled off his one boot. He shifted back his weight to lift the other foot with a leisurely up-and-down motion that ground wonderfully into the cradle of Will’s hips. “And if Norrington ever gives me the chance to arrange another joint action with Jack, you really need to try Rob after a battle with blood all over his face. He can be quite inventive.”
The roll and press of his rump against Will put Will’s hand clutching the chair back and Will’s mouth dragging out a groan. He wrapped his other arm around Bartholomew’s waist and leaned forward so when he spoke, every word was a light kiss scratching the back of Bart’s neck. “Do we have to discuss Norrington?”
“Mr. Turner, do you have a problem with my colleague?” Bart dropped the other boot, then covered Will’s hand with his own. He squeezed it once before starting to guide it somewhat south of his belly. “You did hear, right? Acting governor?”
“Yes, Elizabeth was quite relieved. She’s not quite sure what to make of her father’s newfound desire for an ‘exciting retirement,’ but she is happy that he no longer might have a responsibility to chase us.” Will dawdled around Bart’s belt-buckle. Once that had been dealt with, he allowed his hand to be pushed till he felt the rounding of Bartholomew’s prick. He couldn’t feel much through the thick leather of Bart’s trousers, but his other hand had been pried free of the chair and was seeing to that matter.
Beneath the clothes, Bart’s skin had grown a fraction lighter than the last Will had seen of it. And a little softer, Will thought. He peeled down the trousers far enough for the first shadowed inches of cleft to be visible, then left them there and walked his fingers over the slight jutting crescent of the top of Bart’s hip. Slipped them down the front till he felt the first coarse hairs and paused there. His other hand was holding the trouser fabric over Bart’s prick, which was rising insistently against it. “I rather think you’ve got a problem with your colleague. You’ve brought him up twice now.”
“What did Jack have you doing for the past two weeks? You’ve come back a veritable courtesan,” Bart grunted. The chair beneath him creaked as he rocked against its back.
“Courtesan?” Will lightly fluttered his fingertips at the edge of those hairs. He nuzzled the nape of Bart’s neck, licked at it and felt the other man shudder.
Though he sounded much more breathless, he still hadn’t succumbed. “Well, yes. Whores get straight to it. But courtesans…you have to talk and make eyes and damn it, Will.” Bart twisted his head about to give Will a look that seemed to dry out every particle of moisture in the room. “Fuck me.”
“I was planning to,” Will said. Choked, more like, but he wasn’t quite ready to surrender to the inevitable. He did, however, relent enough to push Bart’s trousers down to his knees and take the other man well in hand. Lovely hot, firm prick, its veins pulsing hard enough for Will to feel their flickers, and Bartholomew let out such a long, airless gasp when Will’s fingers touched it. Callused from years of smithing and then a few of piracy, but in this case Will certainly wasn’t going to earn disapprobation from anyone for such signs of hard labor. “Oh, damn. I don’t have—”
“Lazy English son of a whore,” Bart hissed. He slapped something back at Will—a small bottle—before tipping forward so he was folded nearly in two. The movement of his hips and the slow rubbing of his beautiful arse against Will’s prick had rapidly progressed from deliberate to unconsciously frantic.
Will yanked down his own trousers fast enough to catch the tip of his cock on something and that hurt a bit, but as soon as that barrier was gone Bart was nudging and pressing back into him, which soon ironed out the pain. He tipped the oil over his fingers and then stuck in two without any preliminaries because he thought—
--but no, Bart hissed and writhed in the grips of an entirely different sensation. Cursing, Will immediately stilled his hand. Made openmouthed love to the back of Bart’s neck, stroked Bart’s prick till the other man had calmed. “Sorry, sorry, I—”
“No harm done.” Bart took a deep breath that relaxed his body around Will’s fingers. Then he laughed. “I haven’t since—Rob likes it so much on his back, and he’s positively murderous about the idea of sharing beyond you.”
“He’s an odd, odd fish. Though very, very good company.” Will cautiously twitched his fingers, all the while watching Bart.
Murmur, but otherwise no other reaction. So Will flexed his fingers, drawing them nearly out and then stabbing inwards, and Bart moaned and twisted against him, hot as a mare in season. His shirt, damp with sweat, stuck to Will for a moment before falling away. His hand slid off the chair to grab at Will’s wrist, try to make it move faster on his cock. “Will…”
Third finger, and Will thanked the scar on his knuckle that he could rasp along the sweet tight passage so Bartholomew’s head dropped nearly to rest on the seat cushion. He actually let go of Bart’s prick to finger his balls; Bart strangled an indignant cry and tried to take over attending to his prick, but Will batted his hand out of the way. “Where is Robert, by the by?”
“Waiting,” Bart whimpered, shoving himself back and forth between Will’s hands. When Will withdrew his fingers, the other man forced out some guttural Welsh and bucked hard, nearly hard enough to pressure Will’s cock into blanking out Will’s mind. But not quite, and when Will pushed in his prick rather roughly, Bart fell limply against the chair. “Christ.”
“Waiting?” Will echoed. His vision had begun to waver the moment he had slid into Bartholomew’s welcoming body and he was vaguely aware that his hands were no longer obeying him. Instead they were mindlessly working Bart into a squirming incoherent mess as a distraction of sorts. Something to keep Will’s hands busy while he tried to remember what in hell he’d been doing. He’d had a plan.
Somehow Bart managed to look back at Will. His mouth couldn’t quite draw itself into a smile, but there was enough mischief in his eyes to send the message. “Waiting.”
“Oh.” This time, Will shoved himself against Bart hard enough to tip the chair onto its first two legs. It was a heavy piece of furniture and when it slammed back down, it rocked the both of them into deep groans.
That seemed to be a signal of sorts, for just then Bart seemed to snap, the remnants of his self-control vanishing as he threw himself back into Will, knees spreading so he would have pulled them to the floor if Will hadn’t had an arm around him. And Will abruptly tired of doing whatever he had been intending in favor of fucking Bart back over the chair. He fastened his mouth to the join of Bart’s shoulder and neck, felt the wild beat of the other man’s pulse against his teeth. Dug his fingers hard into Bartholomew’s slippery twisting hip and pinned him and thrust into him so deeply that Will nearly got lost there.
“Oh, God, yes…” Bart’s hands had lost their hold on the chair frame and were scrabbling at the brocaded padding. He twisted around, spitting curses that started in one tongue and broke into another, a mind-wringing wonder that had Will securely entranced. “Jesus. Two weeks…”
“Missed me?” Will somehow found the strength to say.
Snarled, “Yes, damn it.” And then Bart flung himself at the chair and this time there wasn’t any saving of it—the damn thing tipped and fell and its legs came within hairs of knocking Will’s legs out from under him. Bart’s weight was suddenly all hanging from Will’s arm as the other man twitched and whined and came, warm and wet over Will’s hand, and it was all Will could do to keep them upright.
He yanked too hard, stood them back on their feet and that brought Bart down and Will even deeper into him so the wash of heat whipped Will right out of his body. Stand up, stand up, Will dazedly ordered himself, and concentrating on that was all that kept him grounded.
Eventually the words ceased to be a force drumming through his body and became mere thoughts, the world sharpened into clarity. Bart was half-bent and groping blindly for the chair that had fallen over, and he was laughing a wicked, breathless laugh in which Will couldn’t help joining him.
“God,” Bart said, at last finding the beached chair. He grabbed for the upturned legs and rested lightly on them, which somewhat relieved the strained on Will’s shaking arms. “Haven’t had a fuck like that in years.”
“Sometimes patience can be rewarding.” Will eased out of him and flopped to the floor beside the chair. He stared at the ceiling while his tired muscles slowly melted into the fine thick rug.
After a moment, Bart awkwardly got himself to his knees and laid a hand on Will’s shoulder. Still grinning, he leaned over Will and gave him a sweet, gentle kiss that was the perfect counterpoint. “Maybe, but I think perhaps we should go find Rob. Patience might be close to killing him at this point.”
* * *
If Bartholomew were honest with himself, he’d cheerfully admit that proposing a matelotage arrangement with Will had been entirely spur-of-the-moment and not really meant as a permanent situation. He had wanted something to keep Sparrow’s fascinating first mate coming back, but not necessarily for it to apply beyond a few months. After that, he’d figured they would have had their fill of each other and they could dissolve the pact. Robert would have been a bit tricky to handle, but they could have thought of something.
But after a mere week of acquaintance and then two of separation, he was surprised to find himself already thinking of their accord in terms of years, and possibly beyond. A good pirate was a forward-thinker with many pots on the stove, but he didn’t necessarily assume he’d have the stocks to make up a fresh set once those had finished boiling. Bart, however, had caught himself thinking about how to fit Will in with the governor’s usual run of responsibilities and the likely changes in regional politics.
Well, he had been running loose in the Caribbean for nearly ten years—far longer than most pirates, even if he was still younger than his former fellow captains. He had been getting tired of constantly outwitting the authorities, shifting bases and all the rest that came with life under no nation’s sail, and that had been why he’d taken the offer of a Governor’s post. Ceremony aside, it wasn’t a bad situation—his bad instincts for the mechanics of sailing a ship were no longer a weak point since he had men to sail for him, and he still could wreck plenty of mischief under the license of wartime.
And there was also Rob. Delightful in bed and intriguing puzzle out of it—he was passionately attached to Bartholomew and Will and, in true lordly manner, didn’t bother denying what pleased him, but at the same time he was chillingly cold to everyone else. There certainly had to be interesting skeletons in his closet.
“He’s been quite annoying the past week—told off one of Norrington’s lieutenants in a most insulting way. I had a devil of a time keeping it from coming to a duel.” The ache was already starting to cut short Bartholomew’s stride, but he didn’t give in to the urge to limp. Instead he rolled his hips into it and enjoyed the long-absent sensation; much as he liked giving it, he also liked getting it and Will certainly knew how to do that. “What was his name…Gillette? It was French-sounding.”
“Gillette. Thank God they didn’t—I’ve seen that one fight and Rob would’ve cut him in half with the first pass.” After Bartholomew had unlocked the bedroom door—which garnered him a raised brow—Will went in first. Then he stopped. Bartholomew had the distinct impression of a jaw dropping open.
Robert did look stunning spread like that. Magnificently naked, wrists and ankles lashed to the bedposts. The bed was slightly too short to properly strain his frame into the appropriate quivering state of tension—the Spanish were damned short—so Bartholomew had improvised and shoved a pillow beneath Robert’s hips to plump up his arse. He’d went through the entire mansion till he’d found one with the right combination of firmness and give, so it was probably tormenting Rob with its slightly-inadequate pressure. Silk covering, too, so not nearly enough roughness.
“Waiting, you said.” And so said Will, very nonchalantly. At the sound of his voice, Rob moaned through his gag and squirmed the little that his bonds allowed. Even desperate he had an undulating grace that seriously tested Bartholomew’s self-control.
“I also said he’s been annoying, and he was. Much more nasty than usual.” Bartholomew crossed to the bed and perched on its edge, laying a hand on Robert’s flank. He drew his fingers down its frantic push into him and then drifted them off to see how much sweat slicked the other man. “I told him starting a war with the acting Jamaica governor would only delay you.”
Will finally shook off his lassitude and walked to the bed. His eyes were dark and hot and he was moving far too casually.
He put his hands on the end of the bed and leaned over to nod at Robert’s arse. “What’s that?”
“This?” When Bartholomew was particularly pleased with himself, he grinned like a hungry wolf, or so he’d been told. He did so now as he traced his fingers in a long loop from Rob’s hip to the bit of polished ivory nestling between his buttocks. Tapped it and Rob choked, shook like sails in a hurricane wind. “This corsair ventured over from the African coast. Had the most interesting collection, which I took the liberty of appropriating for myself.”
Without warning, he pulled it out. Popped his tongue out of his cheek at the same time to accompany Rob’s beautiful little fit of jerking.
Will looked at the highly-polished cone of ivory, which was currently gleaming with a little bit of oil, and then he looked at Rob. “I think I’m going to die.”
“A very pleasant death, I assure you. Come on.” A light jab at Robert’s arse with the phallus provoked a weak snarl; Bartholomew chuckled as he kissed the spot. He tossed the toy over his shoulder and reached out to pull Will up onto the bed.
The other man was attending to his trousers and that really did need to be seen to, but first there was something else. Bartholomew kept pulling Will until he’d gotten Will’s hand beneath Rob to feel the bonds there.
Will’s eyebrows shot up and he yanked his trousers down to his knees in one motion. “You were very irritated.”
“I do not like apologizing to Naval officers. Even ones as gentlemanly as Commodore-Governor Norrington.” That done, Bartholomew laid back beside Rob and watched Will mount the other man.
He folded his hands behind his head. After a moment, he reached over and plucked the gag from Robert’s mouth just as Will shoved in. Rob gasped, arched and spat a raspy torrent of curses that eventually settled into: “You bastard.”
Though that was the only thing he managed to say, as then Will began to fuck him in earnest. His face dropped back into the pillows and his hands, as Bartholomew saw when he turned his head, had twisted so tightly around the ropes that they seemed to be all white knuckles. When Will slid forward, Rob lifted his head to show bared teeth, and when Will withdrew, Rob’s head lolled and his mouth went slack around a breathy whine. If Bartholomew hadn’t been completely done in for the moment, it would have given him more ideas. As it was, he couldn’t help lifting a hand to stroke beneath Robert’s chin; he managed to leave it there for nearly five seconds before Robert mustered the energy to snap at him.
Bartholomew stretched, flinched good-naturedly at the soreness in his arse, and looked forward just in time to see Will pulling a leather strap out from under Rob. The next writhe of their bodies together took them both over the edge, Rob letting out a muffled shout into the mattress and Will straining with the effort of holding himself up.
Then Will dropped down on Robert, panting so hard that he couldn’t speak. He did try while Bartholomew leisurely untied Robert, but it wasn’t till the third time that he succeeded in producing anything intelligent. “Jesus Christ. I’m almost afraid to ask what you and Jack got up to in your time—ow!”
Will’s hand had slipped down to the mattress and Robert had sluggishly craned his head about to chew on it. He ducked Bartholomew’s half-hearted slap, then nuzzled at Will’s throat, which was about as close to an apology as he ever got. “I should ask your captain what kind of ship takes three days to go twenty miles.”
“We weren’t going directly,” Will stiffly answered. Like any good sailor, he was defensive of his ship. And like the intelligent man he was, he quickly rediscovered the proper methods with which to handle Rob: he moved his hips in a slow circle. Rob’s eyes rolled back into his head and he went quite boneless while Will awkwardly climbed off of him. “Anyway, that delay provided me with some nice gifts, so I wouldn’t complain too much.”
“Gifts?” Bartholomew sat up and retrieved Will’s mysterious package from the floor where Will had dropped it. He was on the point of unwrapping it when someone rapped on the door.
“Sir? A Mr. Gaspar is here to see you. He’s accompanied by a young man that he refuses to introduce,” called a servant.
Damnation. The duties to the Crown could be so badly-timed…Bartholomew regretfully put the bundle down on the table and looked over himself.
“Fortunately, your sartorial preferences don’t show the stains.” Rob lazily pushed himself up on his elbows and offered his mouth.
Which of course Bartholomew took, with great pleasure and greater savagery. When he finally pulled himself from the other man, he found that he’d ended up gripping Rob by the hair…and that Robert had managed to tidy up his appearance with a few deft motions of the hand. He lingered over Rob’s lower lip, sucking it against his teeth. “So you are good for something peaceful. Will, sorry to leave you already but I’m sure you can make yourself at home. Give him a bath or something—I’ll be back for dinner.”
When Bartholomew finally appeared before his guests, he was nursing both a sore lip and a sore rump. It was hard not to simply smirk his way through the discussion.
* * *
“How many beds does Bart have?” Will wondered.
The one they were currently occupying was far less ostentatious than the first, but it was larger and very comfortable. Just enough pillows for him to prop against the headboard and about a damp, sprawling Rob who seemed intent on personally licking all the drops left over from their bath from Will’s skin. “One. This happens to be mine.”
“Oh, right. Of course you’d sleep separately…” The last few days had been a frenetic rush from ambush to ambush as Jack had swiped treasures and outmaneuvered Spanish, and it’d left Will far more worn-out than he’d realized till now. With the softness of the bed beneath him and a warm body to lean on, he was nearly ready to call it heaven and doze off.
“Or we’d appear to. It’s always surprising to me how much a gesture towards decorum and a small bag of gold can conceal.” Rob didn’t sound surprised in the least. He drew himself up to explore further in the hollows of Will’s throat and scraped his teeth on a half-healed cut just beneath the point of Will’s jaw—dangers of shaving while under threat of battle. Instead of backing off, he probed it with his tongue.
Will rolled his eyes and fisted a hand in Rob’s hair, giving him a warning tug. The man had kept it cropped fairly short, but it was long enough to make running fingers through it feel rather like petting a cat. Not the wild things that crept in the hold and sat malevolently in the high crevices of Tortuga’s cars, but like the purebred what-have-you Will had once seen crouching in the lap of one of the wives of Norrington’s officers. Silky and slightly wavy so the light shaded it in unpredictable glints.
Rob was something like an over-large cat himself, what with the way his eyes closed to halfmast and his head turned into the petting. Though very much more the alley or the jungle kind, for all his mannered ways. When Will slipped his hand down his shirt-collar to tickle the skin there, he nearly got a gash in his palm for his pains. He jerked away his hand and Rob petulantly followed it, rubbing the side of his face against Will’s shoulder so his stubble rasped through the thin linen of Will’s shirt.
“Anamaria says there’s a creature in the swamps of Florida, a turtle that can grow as big as a ship’s anchor.” After a moment, Will warily ran a finger over the back of Robert’s neck. “It’s got a beak as sharp as a knife and a nasty temper. Can take off a hand or foot like that.”
And on that word, he flipped about his hand to press hard into the raw red corner of Rob’s mouth where the gag had chafed. Robert hissed and jerked sideways into Will’s mouth, where he struggled for a few seconds before giving in to the pressure of Will’s tongue. He did so damnably fast, surrendering so utterly that Will had the illusion he was falling and had to shake himself hard. “You bite too much.”
“Do I? Rather thought you liked it.” The other man snaked down Will’s chest, folding an arm over it so he could rest his chin on his hand. His legs moved, tangling the sheets so they rustled strange things to the room, and the light sparkled off his earring.
It was large and, compared to the rest of the house, almost frightening in its asceticism. Very little furniture, all as plain as could be though of the highest-quality. The desk was neatly organized with no item that betrayed a personal touch, the cabinet beside it the same, and the carpet a large nondescript rug that only covered the floor where the bed was. Otherwise the floor was bare wood, polished smooth but unstained. In fact, the only things that distinguished it as a personal bedchamber were a sword rack on the wall and a two large maps hanging on the wall. One was of the Caribbean, and Will intended to have a closer look at it later for it seemed to be more accurate in spots than Jack’s, and the other was of Scotland.
Robert sounded even more purely British than Commodore Norrington did, Will thought. Two weeks ago the Pearl had been involved in the rescue of a British official newly arrived in the region and the difference between his accent and those of anyone who’d spent significant time in the Caribbean had been mildly shocking. “Bart says your mother’s Scottish.”
“She was Scottish the way the Black Pearl is your captain’s ship,” Rob answered. His tone was surprisingly acerbic, and he looked off to the side as he spoke. Then he rolled off Will—winced a bit—and made as if to get up.
Will suppressed a sigh. It was a good thing he’d already had plenty of experience with mediating between sensitive temperaments such as Elizabeth and Anamaria.
He sat up and wrapped his hand very gently around Robert’s ankle, careful to fit his fingers over the bruising. The other man immediately stopped.
“I like biting. But I usually don’t like blood,” Will said. He tugged at the ankle so Rob’s teeth snapped together hard enough to clack. Then he squeezed. Listened to the undertones in Robert’s whine and noted how the other man stayed a bit stiff, though Rob couldn’t help swaying a little. Still squeezing, Will moved his hand off Robert’s ankle and up the calf so he could bend down and suck very tenderly at the dark red-purple circles around it.
The bed jounced and sheets whispered as Robert finally flopped back down. When Will looked up, Rob had curled around to stare curiously at him. His eyes half-shut and he lay very still and very relaxed while Will retrieved a couple things from the side-table—namely, the bottle of wine they’d nearly finished and something from his package. Then Will crawled up to half-lie in the middle of the arc of Robert’s body, propping himself up on elbows. He ran a finger around the rim of the wine bottle, collecting the traces there, and then offered the finger to Rob. “I’ve got a reason for that. It’s blood in general.”
“But you’re a pirate. Privateer. Oh, it’s only three letters’ difference.” Rob’s tongue flicked out to taste, but after a few licks he put his head down.
“I know, and I fight, but there’s a difference with…do you believe in ghosts? Magic? That sort of thing?” Will picked at the strings binding the wrapper till he’d gotten the knot undone. He took his time pulling off the layers of cloth with which he’d enfolded his gift, but he might as well not have bothered; Rob’s eyes stayed on his face.
Eventually the other man shrugged, and in doing so moved himself a fraction closer. Because it was the peak of the day’s heat, they’d opened the windows and bound the curtains before them so only the breezes and a dim light could pass through the fabric. It made the room a dreamy space of shadow and stirring air, and Rob a fey thing all draped in hazy dark with only the earring and his eyes shining brightly. “I’ve seen much that couldn’t be explained by natural causes, but as for magic—no. I take issue with the belief that a mere human could actually control those sorts of things with a few words or some horsehair and a candle.”
“You’ve got an interesting idea of what magic is,” Will laughed. He finished unwrapping his present, but for the moment let it lie where it was. After downing another swallow of the wine, he laid his hand palm-up on the mattress. “See this scar?”
Robert leaned forward, nodded and returned to his former position. Beneath the affected boredom he looked uncertain, eyes flicking over Will as if he feared Will was about to attack him.
“I turned the dead into the living, and the living into the dead when I made that scar.” And very slowly and carefully, Will told him the story of the cursed gold, and of how Will had come to be a pirate in the first place. For after Jack had escaped the scaffold, the changes wrought had not ceased to stir Will’s life. Nor had they begun only with Jack’s coming, but rather long before when he’d opened that last letter from his father and spilled into his hand a strangely-worked, chilling coin of gold.
Throughout the recitation, Rob kept the same noncommittal expression. Occasionally he would interrupt Will to ask for a clarification or a repetition, but otherwise he was the perfect listener.
“So yes, I am a pirate. Privateer.” It was a bit ridiculous that even Will couldn’t remember the change—ridiculous or telling. “But I’m no villain like you hear of in the books and pamphlets, nor do I wish to be.”
“On the contrary, you ape the gentleman very well for a commoner.” Possibly that had been a compliment. Probably, for Rob spoke less sharply than he normally did. He settled back, mulling it over. “It’s a fantastic story.”
Will sat up and held the wine bottle before him so he could look down into it. “You should hear some of the stories that came after.”
He concentrated on the rim like Anamaria had taught him, and after a moment he was rewarded with a sudden darkening of the room all around the bed, which alone contained some light above it. The air hummed low and throbbing, and in the corners sparks danced.
Then everything went back to as it had been. Shaking the bottle, Will heard a few last mouthfuls swirl about the bottom and promptly relieved it of one of them. In front of him, Robert appeared to have frozen in thought.
After a moment, he blinked and smiled, eased himself over the space to lie over Will’s knees. “Well, I have no quarrel with blood in general. It reminds one of what life is, and what its worth is.”
And it probably helped ensure that one didn’t get too swept up in the sweetness of a moment, Will suspected. He tilted his head, eying the way Rob’s loose shirt fell away from his throat, then slid a hand in and stroked about till his fingertips touched body-warm metal. “What about blood in particular?”
“Familial blood? I suppose you had some fortune with yours, but mostly I find it to be incredibly inconvenient.” Hands were slipping between Will’s thighs, massaging them in slow circles. Rob pressed an openmouthed kiss to Will’s belly, moved up a few inches and pressed another one around Will’s nipple. He trapped the nub of it with his tongue, wetting the linen so it still stuck when he lifted his mouth. “My mother’s dead, I wish my father had followed her, and the vast majority of my relatives hate each other more than you could ever imagine.”
Bart was by no means ignorant of the usefulness of things that fell beyond the pale of good Christians, so the piercing should have healed by now. But it was probably still tender…Will tweaked it very slightly and was rewarded with nails stabbing into his legs and a gasp against his shoulder. “So is that why you’ve earned such a reputation as a killer?”
“No, I’ve earned that because I simply don’t care about other people. They’re grass blades as far as I’m concerned—you realize you bruise and kill thousands of plants whenever you take a walk?” When Robert shrugged, his shoulder dug into Will’s chest. He nuzzled upward to languidly play his tongue over Will’s throat. “All right, perhaps I can work up enough effort to hate a few. But I’m not permitted to kill them, whereas I’m encouraged to wreck havoc on nearly everyone one.”
Will offered the bottle to Robert, who took it. He moved off of Will just enough for him to be able to tip the bottle and drain it while locking eyes with Will. And then, still staring at Will, he slowly opened his mouth wider and slid the bottle further into it. Glass sheathing itself in warm flesh, a taunt and an unconscious revelation all at once.
A satisfied glint in his eye, Rob pulled out the bottle so he made a popping sound—clearly Bart’s influence at work—and handed it back to Will. “I’m far too old now to pretend that I’m anything but what I am. And what I am is someone that generally doesn’t like people.”
“I should feel flattered, then.” The bottle was still glistening with spit. And Will’s head had succumbed a fraction to the heat, but he could think and put hints together and come out with a decent guess. One of the unexpected benefits of being the first mate, or the man who cleaned up the messy aftermath, to a captain who preferred not to sleep alone if he could help it was that Will had learned a good deal about reading people in bed.
He dipped his hand into Rob’s shirt again, hooked his finger through the ring and used it to draw the other man up against him. When Rob started to say something, Will tugged on it and instead found himself on the receiving end of a deep, desperate kiss. He did his best to think around it and slid the wine bottle down till it touched the bare skin of Rob’s leg. Waited as Robert went very still, and then till Rob had started to move impatiently before he dragged it up to touch its rim to what had to be a sore, stretched arsehole.
“If I fucked you with this—” Will pushed it in just enough for it to be felt, twisted it and when Robert lowered his lips, savaged them in time with the twisting “—it’d probably hurt you less—” rolled the bottle away and slipped in fingers in its place “—than if I fucked you very slowly and very gently like I wanted you to enjoy it. Instead of making you enjoy it.”
Rob’s eyes had already gone hazy with lust, but his confusion showed through it clearly enough. He licked his lips and answered in a raspy voice. “Then what was earlier about? You liked it that way.”
“Yes, I did. But I happen to like it this way, too, and I think you would too. I spent two damned weeks trying to figure out the quickest way back here and now that I’ve made it, I’m not going to rush.” As he spoke, Will had begun to move his fingers. In when he breathed in, out when he breathed out. It was slow at first but that way he got to watch all the changes in Robert’s face, the flickers of fear and uncertainty and irritation and defensiveness that all gradually washed away beneath the pleasure.
The other man swayed in and Will could see the glint of Rob’s teeth, which was not what he’d been trying for. So he flicked at the ring, darted forward as Rob’s eyes widened and wrapped his mouth around Rob’s earring. Spread his palm out against Rob’s chest and pressed the ring between them while his fingers slowly worked faster and faster, but still very careful to not to drive Robert faster than he could go.
Groan against his cheek. “Isn’t this more of the same? Oh, God, harder…”
Rob was rolling his hips into it, pushing down on Will’s hand hard enough to pain Will’s wrist, and when Will let him do it, the other man paused for a fraction of a second. Then he writhed against Will with twice the enthusiasm, lipping at Will’s jaw and ear and neck and shoulder.
“Difference in tone. I’m not Bart, and he’s not me, and on the whole I’d think that would be to your advantage,” Will said, feeling his breath start to shorten. He was still much too tired for it, but nevertheless his prick thought he might be up for another round soon.
The fingers gripping his thighs were probably going to leave bruises, he thought. And with that thought came the image of Rob licking at them and Will hissed out his breath early so that he nearly choked. His hand jerked the pace up and he dug deep into Rob’s maddeningly tight heat—how on earth could he still have such a close fit, considering what he and Bart had to have been up to in the meanwhile? It was a mystery and it was an intoxicating one, and Will was buried knuckles deep in it where only a few hours before he’d been balls-deep. He vaguely recalled something from then and pressed his fingers together into a v-shape, tried to recreate the angle. But the whine that issued from Rob’s mouth was not precisely the same and so Will tried again, and again. He still had no luck, and though the number of different cries he provoked from Robert would’ve made a fascinating study in and of itself, Will persisted in his current one.
When Robert finally came, Will was still attempting to reproduce it. In fact, he only registered the dampness soaking into his trousers and his shirt moments afterward, when Rob had already collapsed, looking like nothing but shoulders heaving with breath and two bare feet sticking out from under him. It was oddly angelic.
Will drew out his fingers without the usual flourish and eased Robert to the mattress, where he rolled the man over. “Now, try to kiss me without ripping my lip open,” he muttered, bending down.
* * *
Having finally been able to don comfortable clothing, Bartholomew padded into Rob’s room to find him fast asleep with his head on Will’s lap. The line of his body as he stretched and curled over the bed was utterly exhausted. His shirt was wide-open at the throat and its hem only stretched to cover half the swells of his arse, while the sheets that twisted to cover his legs were…had been freshly changed.
“I see you had your rights,” Bartholomew snorted. He perched on the edge of the bed to take off his boots, then swung his legs onto the mattress. Rob stirred so Bartholomew ran a hand over his side, as if he would the flank of an excited horse, and the other man settled again.
“Figuratively speaking.” Will had been browsing a packet of ominous-looking documents. Now he put them down and grinned, which revealed that he was no less tired. “He dozed off before I could even give him this.”
The object Will plucked from the rumpled blankets was silvery and long. A dirk by the shape, but the blade was of the watered steel seen only in the fine swords from the Far East. Its hilt was very simple and bound with black leather, and its sheath was equally plain. If Rob had been awake, his eyes might have lighted up with a very rare flare of awe.
“A fine weapon.” Then Bartholomew frowned and squinted at it. He tilted his head, thinking. No, looking harder in the wrong manner wouldn’t tell him anything. The second time he gazed at it, he let his eyes relax so his vision blurred. “Ah. Well. Where on earth have you been?”
“Having some interesting encounters with the Spanish and some of their new allies.” Will resheathed it and set it down on the side-table, where he also retrieved something else that he handed to Bartholomew.
It proved to be a telescope of the highest quality, which by rights should have been in a nobleman’s hand. But Bartholomew certainly wasn’t going to protest if it had found its way into his. He carefully set it aside and then climbed over Rob to thank Will with a lengthy, probing kiss that left them both rather in need of air. “God, where have you been?”
“Finding trouble,” Will sighed. He flipped the papers in his hand, then shoved them at Bartholomew as if he wished he were shoving them into a fire.
Understandably, as they proved to be intercepts and translations of Spanish communiqués hinting at unleashing the witches against the heretics. Though Bart couldn’t read much Spanish and less Latin, he could decipher enough of the originals to know that whoever had been the translator hadn’t taken many liberties with their work. Later he’d get Rob to do the whole of it, but…he looked up from the papers. “Will? Why didn’t you hand these over sooner?”
“Because I—Jack—already took care of that.” Will pulled one last item from the discarded wrapping-cloth on the table: a rosary crusted over with blood.
A closer look showed that it was no normal rosary, for the cross was hung upside-down and there were curious glyphs scratched into the beads. It tingled unpleasantly in Bartholomew’s hand, and he was very glad to hand it back to Will, who wrapped it tightly in the cloth. “So that’s what delayed you.”
“The thing is, Jack doesn’t think it’ll be the only time the Spanish try this. Neither do I.” Uncharacteristically morose, Will let his head fall back against the headboard. His hand drifted over Rob’s head, fingering Rob’s earring, and then wandered to Bartholomew’s hip. “You know what that means.”
“We’ve already been trying to gather the rest of the Brethren into the fold. Gaspar agreed today to meet Norrington at the negotiating table, so that’s two-thirds,” Bartholomew replied. But he knew that wasn’t what Will was worrying over. He slouched to one side and wrapped an arm around Rob’s waist, taking some comfort in the long warm press of his body and more in the determined set of Will’s jaw.
The news was bad, but it looked like Bart had at least one to help him face it. “There’s still Blackbeard and Woodes Rogers, at least,” Will muttered. He absently glanced down, then took a second look.
Robert, apparently, was awake and listening intently to the conversation. Now he twisted around to nip at Bartholomew’s nose. “Yes?”
“Very clever. I should make you mediate more often—they’d never be able to tell whether you disliked the proposal or were merely bored.” Bartholomew slipped a hand up Robert’s shirt and rubbed it between the other man’s legs so Robert whimpered, head falling back to Will’s lap.
When he took it out, there was a coarse crinkly hair stuck in one of his nails; Will saw it and promptly leaned forward to tease it off with his mouth. He pulled the hair from his lips and dropped it on the floor. “I’ve been informing Rob a bit about the other side to piracy in the Caribbean. I’m surprised you hadn’t yet.”
“I actually was planning to tomorrow—it seemed better to wait till you were here. You do, after all, have the better introduction to it.” Well, life was not all bad, even if there was a shadow on the horizon. There was still this: warm bodies in a shared bed, the familiar glint of companionship still glowing even after they had spent themselves in their couplings. It was something Bartholomew was coming to value more highly than the momentary, if far brighter, flash of raw animalistic pleasure. “I don’t think Rogers should be difficult to persuade. He’d already been putting out feelers, and I understand he’s been rather lonely since his last matelot was hanged by the Spanish. Think Jack knows anyone?”
“Matchmaking as a diplomatic art. The world is the same over, whether it be pirates or aristocrats.” Whereupon Robert found himself assaulted by two pairs of hands. He quickly lost his jaded attitude and was forced to gasp, “Nearly the same.”
Will chucked him beneath the chin, then handed him the dirk. “I’m beginning to think I should save this for someone who appreciates it.”
Robert looked at it for a long moment, running his thumb along the sheath with something very near reverence in his face. Then he silently rose and gave Will a soft, lingering kiss that made Bartholomew chuckle ironically and look down at the papers. They were getting rather crushed, so he smoothed them out and refolded them before secreting them in his sleeves.
“He’s learned to curb his mouth?” Bartholomew asked, surprised to see no blood on either of the other two’s lips.
“No, I merely save my bite for your benefit.” With a provoking up-jerk of the chin, Robert sank back down between Bartholomew and Will.
Double-tongued bastard. Though Bartholomew supposed that that way he’d never lose interest.
“But Teach is insane,” Will muttered, thinking aloud. He picked at the sheets and twisted bits of them into odd curlicues, then smoothed them out. “He won’t fight for the Spanish, but he’ll happily attack us. I don’t know what we’ll do with him.”
“Leave him for later—I hear he’s busy in the Carolinas with one of his mistresses for the moment. Right now, I settle Gaspar and you and Jack, probably, will have to deal with Rogers.” Bartholomew winced a bit, and it had nothing to do with pleasant romping in the Governor’s private chambers. He caught Will’s curious look and did his best to look nonchalant. “He and I aren’t precisely on good terms.”
Rob snorted and pulled Will’s hand to him to nibble on the fingertips. He glanced at Bartholomew, making sure he had the attention of both of them, before slowly curling his tongue about Will’s thumb. The man really was insatiable, and shameless in the manner that only someone who didn’t give a damn about proper roles could be. A paradox since Robert was clearly as proud of his lineage as he was resentful of it. “Did you fuck him?”
“Not every quarrel in the world originates in the bedroom,” Bartholomew scolded. But he must have sounded a wrong note, for Will merely raised an eyebrow. “All right—no. Not him. His…er…former first mate. Which he took somewhat less sanguinely than did Jack in your case, Will.”
“You’ve got a taste for first mates?” Will was absently running his free hand through Robert’s hair, and the brazen son of a bitch was nearly purring.
Bartholomew rolled his eyes and pulled himself over Robert to straddle Will’s knees. “Don’t tell me you’re—”
“Of course not. I’m only—” And there Will stopped, struck by some idea. He stared straight through Bartholomew, and even his hands stopped their movements, much to Rob’s displeasure.
So Rob, being the vicious lordling that he was, promptly rolled about to push his face against Bartholomew’s crotch. His breath blew warm moist air up Bartholomew’s untucked shirt and Bartholomew could faintly feel his mouth opening and closing and God, he was a wicked thing. Yanking him up by the hair only showed him smiling; he even took a playful snap at Bartholomew.
Well, there was nothing to be done then but to take his mouth hard enough to remind him that whatever terms he’d made with Will, they didn’t supersede but were exactly equal to the ones made with Bartholomew. Once Rob had been reduced to a squirming mess, Bartholomew checked on Will. “What idea do you have brewing?”
“I ran across someone very interesting in a tavern the other day. Tom Blood.” Will waited as if he expected Bartholomew to understand the significance of that. When Bartholomew didn’t—Thomas Blood was a famous scoundrel in England, but not of much note in the Caribbean—Will let out an exasperated sigh. “He looks a little like you.”
“He doesn’t have a good history of obeying others’ orders…” Or so it appeared. Bartholomew had heard some rumors of Blood being a royal agent and so forth, but nothing solid. And even if they were true, then Blood wasn’t a very good one for he’d failed in most of his exploits.
On the other hand, Woodes Rogers had become something of a martinet and he certainly had a talent for handling wayward spirits. Perhaps a taste for it as well, though that had mostly disappeared after the death of his partner-lover.
“If it doesn’t work, I could always kill him,” Rob commented. He had a lazy smile on his face, but nothing in his eyes or the set of his shoulders said he was joking.
“I suppose it’s worth a try. But you are staying far, far away from Teach whenever we get to dealing with him,” Bartholomew told him. Then he nipped at Rob’s pierced earlobe. “Don’t look so offended—I think you could take him. He’s gotten sluggish with success. But there are some fights that you do not want to see happen no matter what the circumstances, and that would be one of them.”
He shot a look at Will, who moved up to reinforce Bartholomew by fitting himself to Rob’s back and running his hands up and down Rob’s arms. “All right, enough business. I have three days ashore, and by God, I don’t want to spend all of them talking about…”
The rest of Will’s words were muffled by their entangled fall to the bed.
***