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It wasn't so much odd to have a woman on board - Silver had learned long ago not to underestimate the women who made their lives on the sea - but it was odd to have a gentlewoman like Miranda Barlow. The Ashe girl mostly kept to herself, quiet and shrinking as a mouse, scribbling in her diary. Not so with Barlow, who took turns around the weather deck when it suited her, whether she was on the captain's arm or not.
Perhaps that was the oddest part. This mess in Nassau had given Silver to realize that James Flint was not as impervious as he liked to present, and he had thought Miranda to be one more piece of evidence that Flint was no true pirate, but a gentleman playing at the trade. Certainly Flint was as ruthless as they came, and both Silver and the crew knew with certainty (and intimacy, on Silver's part) that the captain indulged in buggery when it suited him, but his manner with the Barlow woman was yet different than any of the sides Silver had seen of him so far. If he had doted on her, that would have been one thing, but they seemed to be easy and strained with each other by turns, and Silver couldn't puzzle out the reason.
The most infuriating thing about having Barlow as a passenger was Flint's sudden concern for secrecy when it came to his and Silver's affair. They hadn't had time for more than quick fumblings - rushed tug-offs in Flint's cabin, hurriedly over before Barlow and Miss Ashe returned from the deck. The question why strained on the edge of Silver's tongue whenever he managed to catch Flint alone, but the captain had shown a dim view of Silver prying into his past, and he still wasn't entirely certain the man wouldn't shoot him if it came down to it.
On occasion, though, Silver had to admit to himself that his perverse streak sometimes did him more harm than good. Like this latest time his brief encounter with the captain was cut short by the sound of light steps approaching the cabin door, leaving him with an aching cock and a profound irritation for one Miranda Barlow.
"You're not," Silver said, staring at Flint as he was shoved away.
"Later. Go," was all Flint said, pulling the tie from his hair and binding it back anew so there would be no fly-aways, tucking his shirt into his trousers and shrugging his coat back on.
"I'm beginning to despise that woman," Silver said - and was completely unprepared for the way that made Flint's face go hard and put a curl of anger in his upper lip. Silver raised his hands and left the cabin, banging the door shut behind him with more force than was necessary.
He quite nearly ran the woman down - Miranda stopped short, fixing him with a critical look, her face as hard as Flint's and just as unreadable. Abigail was nowhere to be seen. That in itself was unusual, as neither Flint nor Miranda were prone to leaving the girl to her own devices.
"Afternoon," Silver drawled, long and lazy and without any of the respect a gentlewoman should be afforded. He knew he was rumpled - the laces of his shirt were undone and the tails of it hung free, his hair was mussed and his lips red and swollen from Flint's teeth. He let a wide, cheeky grin spread across his face at Miranda's appraising gaze.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Silver," Miranda said - even her voice was inscrutable. Silver begrudgingly had to admire her composure and her acumen both. A lesser woman might have resorted to cutting remarks if a man sauntered out of her lover's cabin looking like Silver did now. Miranda continued past him, and Silver found himself lingering by the cabin door after she closed it.
Given his dalliance with Flint, the prickle of jealousy that rose in him was expected. Still, it was an unwelcome sensation that Silver tried to shove aside - he had no claim over the man, and no-one could call their constant prodding and testing of one another anything like romance. The very idea was ridiculous.
So Silver could not explain the impulse that drove him to lean his ear against the door of the cabin, listening for the conversation within.
"Going over charts, was it?" Miranda asked, her voice sharp. That was an abrupt change from her even manner outside the door.
"I was," Flint said.
"Don't lie to me, James," she said, and Silver's eyebrows rose. He had never been able to use the captain's first name, not even in bed together. His surprise and his estimation of Miranda increased when she continued, "You're fucking the cook."
The footsteps and sounds of rustling paper from inside the cabin stopped. Flint didn't say anything in response, and Silver badly wanted to see the captain's face. Did he have that tic in his jaw muscle he got when Silver pressed him, or did he have the look of near-vulnerability he'd worn when he learned of Vane's message to the beach?
"You could have told me," Miranda said, her voice full of reproach.
"No I couldn't," Flint said, and now Silver was sure it was the latter - Miranda had not angered him, she had struck for a weakness and found one. Silver struggled to quiet his breathing - though he knew they could not hear him from inside, it sounded loud to his own ears.
"Why not? Did you think I would begrudge you?" There was a rustle, like she had spread her skirts and sat down. "You're not made of stone, James, and I know your preferences better than anyone."
"It's only fucking," Flint said, and there was an insistence in his voice Silver hadn't expected. Of course the captain didn't have any regard for him - such a thought would be ridiculous. "I don't trust him, especially now that the gold is out of our reach. His interests were aligned with mine for a small while, that's all."
There was a long pause. Silver strained to hear what went on in the cabin, but it seemed that neither of them had moved. "You don't have to defend yourself to me," Miranda said. "I would not have you shamed for your preferences."
"I'm not ashamed," Flint said sharply, and there was the anger Silver had expected. "My crew knows about me, and they don't give a damn. Why would they?"
"Then why creep around hiding it from me?" Miranda asked, her voice gentle.
"What would I have said? I can't call him a lover - God knows that."
"I would not think you tawdry for indulging your desires," Miranda said. "Neither do I expect you to wear the willow for the rest of your days."
Captain James Flint, mourning a lover? It was almost too ridiculous to believe, but if anyone would be right in saying it, it would be this mysterious woman whose history with the captain stretched long beyond anyone else's.
"After what Thomas and I had - after the depth of it, the way I carried him in my heart, the way a piece of me was ripped away first when he was stolen from us and then again when he died - it feels as if I'm betraying his memory to carry on with Silver," Flint said, and the sorrow in his voice was neither feigned nor subtle.
"Thomas wouldn't want you to be celibate, even out of respect for his memory," Miranda said. "Carry on with whom you please, and do try not to feel guilty over it."
Silver drew away from the cabin door - it sounded like this conversation would be over soon, and he didn't want to be caught eavesdropping, not about something that left the captain so stripped bare. Flint would not hesitate to end their encounters - and Silver's life, more than likely - if he ever found out that Silver had discovered such a personal secret.
Up until now, he had been nearly certain that Flint prefered women. Silver had reasoned, like most of the crew he'd wager, that the captain made do with what diversion he could find while they were underway, and then returned to his mysterious woman when ashore. This was something else entirely. This meant Flint would rather be fucking Silver than the woman in the cabin - she was no threat to him on that quarter.
He stopped halfway up the stairs to the quarterdeck. Thinking of Miranda as a threat was new and disconcerting. He couldn't settle on what it was about her that made him feel that way. Perhaps it was her closeness with the captain - she enjoyed a measure of honesty with him that Silver had previously thought only he could boast. But that didn't follow. Silver knew Flint didn't trust him, the same way he didn't trust Flint. Their encounters weren't sentimental - in fact, Flint was almost perfunctory with him. Silver would complain if he didn't enjoy the rough treatment.
Though that had changed of late. The last time they had the occasion to indulge in sex rather than hasty half-clothed encounters had an intensity to it that argued in favor of some further connection beyond 'just fucking,' as Flint had so charmingly put it. Flint had been no less relentless in taking what he wanted, but he'd taken his time. When he wasn't paying attention, Silver had seen something in his face - possession, maybe. Appreciation. If that was all Silver could expect, he would take it.
Silver continued up the stair. Abigail was there, bent over her diary. Her eyes moved to Silver when he crossed the quarterdeck to the opposite rail, but she didn't say anything. The source of Miranda's comfort with leaving her alone was Billy standing silently at her back, staring hard at any who stopped to watch the girl for too long.
What did it matter what Miranda and Flint were to each other? Further, what did it matter whether he thought of Silver as anything more than a means to an end? That was certainly how Silver thought of him.
But as a means to what end, exactly? It was best not to think of the gold - he couldn't afford a slip of the tongue or even a deviation from his normal mannerisms. A downside to being intimate with the captain, certainly, but also a downside of growing closer to the crew. They expected a certain image from him, now. It would have been safer for him to disappear on the morning they set sail to Charleston. There were a hundred places in Nassau for a man to lose himself if he didn't wish to be found. So what was he doing here? Playing to Flint's tune, yes, and in turn leading the crew to dance with it as well.
Where else would you wake up in the morning and matter?
Silver shook that thought away and turned from the railing. A rustle of motion from the stair caught his eye. Miranda had finished speaking with the captain, it seemed. Perhaps he should have stayed to listen to the rest of their conversation after all.
He revised that opinion immediately when Miranda's eyes caught his, a cool steadiness in her gaze that made Silver want to be on the other end of the ship. She crossed the quarterdeck to him, nodding a brief thanks to Billy for standing his silent watch over Abigail.
"Mr. Silver," she said, joining him.
"Mrs. Barlow," Silver said. He leaned his elbows on the railing, his back to the sea, and watched her out of the corner of his eye. She still carried herself like a gentlewoman, despite who knew how many years living in New Providence and all the rough ways that came with it.
A spray of seawater shot up from the wake of the ship, little droplets of it splashing over her face. Miranda closed her eyes for a brief moment. "The last time I was on a ship like this, it was a very different journey," she said. "Much less hopeful."
Silver didn't answer. She was leading him, that much was plain from the bland lack of inflection in her tone. She wanted something from him, or she wouldn't be standing next to him.
"James was just telling me of your liaison," Miranda continued, just as blunt as she'd been in Flint's cabin. Well, slightly less blunt. She didn't say 'fucking' this time.
"'Liaison' might be a misnomer," Silver said.
"What would you call it then?" Miranda smoothed her hands over her skirts, still staring out over the ocean. Her profile betrayed nothing of what she thought.
"You're better at that than the captain," he said, ignoring her question. "Goading people into saying what they're really thinking."
"You seem to have a talent for it as well," Miranda said. "I saw you with the men. You have a way of speaking that reminds me of..." she trailed off, looking at Silver out of the corner of her eye.
"Reminds you of who?"
Miranda's spine stiffened almost imperceptibly. "Boots do not tread lightly on a ship's deck, Mr. Silver. I know you were listening."
She probably didn't intend for that to send a cold shock down his spine, but it did nevertheless. If Miranda had heard him walking away, had Flint? Unlikely, or Silver would be having an entirely different conversation. "Thomas," Silver said. "Who was he?"
"My husband," Miranda said, and that was not the answer Silver expected. He turned from the rail to face her fully, and he knew his confusion showed on his face. "He was a good man - a visionary. I believed in him with all my heart, and so did James. That is all you need know, aside from what you know already."
Silver couldn't help himself - he shook his head, lips quirked in a bitter half-smile. "The captain wouldn't thank you for telling me any of this," he said. "In fact, if he ever does find out we had this conversation, I have a distinct feeling he'd find some creative way of making me disappear with the crew none the wiser."
Miranda turned to face him as well. She was smiling - it was not unkind, and somehow that made Silver all the more wary of her. "I think you underestimate him. James does not do a thing by halves - it's all or nothing with him. If he comes to count you as an ally - a friend, even - he will stand beside you until his dying breath, so long as you return the favor. If he comes to count you as an enemy..." she looked Silver over, then looked out over the deck of the ship at the crew. "I suspect you already know what happens to his enemies. You're still alive. So at the very least, 'ally' is where you fall."
"For now," Silver said. "As long as I remain useful to him, certainly. The moment that ceases to be true, I will need to work very hard to make sure I land on my feet."
He didn't mean to sound so bitter. It was surprising even to him - he was usually better at containing what he truly thought, keeping his emotions under wraps. She was too good at getting him to say what was on his mind. Perhaps he had been right in evaluating her as a threat.
Now Miranda's smile was less kind. "Are you certain you don't mean as long as he's useful to you?"
"You're a dangerous woman, Mrs. Barlow," Silver said. He licked his lips, leaning on the railing carelessly, putting them at a height. "Did he send you out here to find out what I overheard?"
"James? If he wants to know what you overheard, he'll ask you himself," Miranda said. "On the gun deck. At the first bell past midnight watch."
"Beg pardon?" Silver couldn't stop himself from drawing away from her, spine snapping straight.
"As I said. Boots." She looked him over, no doubt taking in the tension Silver felt coiled in his chest. "I only came to deliver the message. You are lucky he'll have so much time to think - I would avoid the captain's cabin for the rest of the day."
For once, the safest option seemed to be keeping quiet. Flint wasn't a man you stopped being afraid of - not unless you were someone like Miranda, who seemed to be the closest thing the captain had to family. The widow of a dead lover - a reminder of the past and a fellow mourner. It went a long way to explaining the way they were with each other, even without any knowledge of Thomas himself. Silver didn't have the luxury of that history, and now he had pried into it.
"Mr. Silver," Miranda said. The smile had fallen from her face, and now she looked at him with something like weariness. He was beginning to realize that this was how she worked - not unlike him. Not unlike Flint. They used their passions as a mask to gain the upper hand. "If you aren't there, he won't come find you. This thing between you will carry on as it has - he will deny that he admires you in any way, and you will insist this is arrangement is purely about business."
"Who says it isn't?" Silver asked, but it was a bad lie and he knew as it left his mouth. It was too flat, too quick.
"You're an accomplished liar," she said, hands laced primly over the waist of her bodice. "I spent many years of my life in London surrounded by the most accomplished liars - politicians. I learned to spot them."
Silver swallowed. His mouth suddenly felt dry. Flint needed him, couldn't kill him - he'd said so on the beach. He'd even thanked Silver for what he did the night of the vote. He'd... "It's hard to know where I stand," Silver said slowly, watching Miranda's face.
"You'll never find out if you walk away," she said. There was nothing for him to read on her face. Only that she was tired.
"What do you have to gain from all this? Going between us, pushing us together. That is what you're trying to do, isn't it?" Silver didn't like that he wasn't able to suss what was happening here - it felt like a trap, but her manner wasn't right for it.
"No man is an island." She took a step away from the railing, toward Abigail, and paused. "One last thing. You have surely judged by now that I enjoy a certain level of confidence with the captain. If I find that you are no longer his ally, it would not be difficult to convince him."
Strangely enough, this circumspect threat was more in line with what Silver had expected from her. This he could understand - it was as close to plain speaking as either of them were likely to come with one another. She continued on without waiting for a response, and Silver tried not to look like he was slinking away as he descended the stair from the quarterdeck and made for the forecastle - putting as much distance between himself and those two as was possible in an inescapable area.
It was only when he disappeared into the darkness of the crew quarters, weaving between hammocks until he came to the galley, that he allowed himself to begin picking apart the tangled confusion of that conversation. He could no more make sense of Miranda now than he could before - if anything, she was even more inscrutable. A woman of shrewd insight, who nevertheless chose to allow Silver at least a modicum of dignity. He had no doubt she could have stripped him down to his bones, laid open the knot of questions and, though he hated to admit it, feelings centered around one James Flint. That she had let him escape without goading into wholly embarrassing himself was a mercy.
She compared Silver to her dead husband. The one Flint had loved - a point of interest, though it was also a dangerous line of thought. Silver should shunt it to the side, should back away from that history and all the implications its association with him entailed. Flint surely didn't see it that way. No matter what Miranda said about not doing things by halves, Flint had yet to give him any indication that what they had was more than a pleasurable diversion. Silver wanted to trust him, but it was too late for that now. He had seen how quickly Flint tacked to gather a following wind, even with swift changes in direction.
That was a bit perhaps unfair. Silver had intended to tell him the truth about the gold - once he had securely won the captaincy on the thought that it was gone. Flint was no fool, for all he sometimes made rash moves. He would have known that the gold on that island was a distraction, something likely to sway the election as long as it remained obtainable. Once it fell out of the crew's reach, they in turn fell into Flint's fold. Silver had given Flint his crew back, wrapped in ribbons and bows with a smile. It didn't make sense for him to stay, after that. He had the gold secure through another crew. He had his future nearly within his grasp. He could run, and leave all of it behind him. Instead he had chosen to throw his lot in with a man who, as far as he knew, saw him as a threat at worst, and a warm body to fuck at best.
Perhaps the worst part was that beyond all reasonable expectation, Flint had thanked him for his part in winning the captaincy. Silver wasn't a green midshipman, to have his head turned by a good word from his captain, but it had sent a gratifying jolt of pride through him to hear Flint say Silver had done well, even half-grudging and gruff. And what followed after... that had been different. He could admit he liked having the captain so singularly focused - Flint had seemed intent on taking him apart. The look in his eyes had devoured Silver whole. Silver hadn't been able to contain his reaction to it, and he was sure Flint had seen the way he responded, undone by the intensity.
The memory of their encounter in Flint's bungalow on the beach was enough to make anticipation skitter up his spine, quickening his pulse. There was no mistaking the reason why Flint wanted to meet on the gun deck. He had promised once that if Silver disobeyed him as a captain, Flint would take a cane to him - put him over the barrel of a gun and put marks on him that none but the two of them would see. Silver couldn't profess to be enamoured of pain, but that thought sent a shudder through him. His stride loosened, and he started to grow hard merely considering what would happen. All of that danger and rage and singular focus turned toward Silver alone. The mere possibility was intoxicating.
So it was no longer a question of if he was going to accept the invitation Flint had passed through Miranda. The thought was too tempting. Silver had always been partial to bedsport that brought a bit of risk with it - if he hadn't, he wouldn't have started this with Flint in the first place. This, though - this was yet beyond what he had done with even the most accommodating of partners. He had to believe Flint would not inflict real damage. If he took it to the point where it would be necessary to call Dr. Howell, he would have to explain himself. It was one thing for the crew to know they were fucking, and quite another for them to suspect the captain was further depraved. Some of the men had started exhibiting odd shows of loyalty toward Silver. Any suspicion that the captain was conducting himself in a manner untoward risked splitting the crew.
Silver's thoughts stuttered to a halt, and one clear question rang out in this mind. When had the crew's reaction been of such importance to him? He wasn't one of them. He didn't want to be. He would take his gold and go, as soon as he got it.
Leaving, though, would mean betraying Flint one last, unforgivable time. It would mean earning the enmity of the redoubtable Mrs. Barlow - something he did not dare scoff at any longer. Silver dreaded the rage that would result when Flint discovered the truth - it was foolishness to even think that he wouldn't eventually. Now, though, with his mind's image of Flint muddled between the blood-soaked, feral thing he'd seen his first day aboard the ship and the naked, sweat-sheened muscle he'd felt under his fingers, Silver thought he might dread seeing that betrayal writ large across Flint's face.
It was rank absurdity. Risky as it was to place himself in Flint's hands as he did, it was even more risky to consider true intimacy. He couldn't even call the man by his name without being silenced. They would never share more than what tenuous trust already lay between them. To wit, it was far better for him to be satisfied with all he could get, rather than press for more.
The first bell after midnight could not come quickly enough. If nothing else, he would see whether this uncertainty between them would continue. If Flint refused to speak of the conversation Silver had overheard in the cabin, if it hung in the air unsaid and they went their separate ways after whatever encounter Flint had planned, Silver would know beyond a shadow of a doubt that however complicated his thoughts were regarding Flint, the reverse was not true.
Silver didn't know why that notion put him in a bad temper, but it did, persisting through the mess and the evening session of embarrassment with the crew. He laid awake in his hammock, staring at the boards of the deckhead and listening to the sounds of snoring from the crew around him - like a chorus of dying dogs. He knew better than to try and anticipate what Flint would want from him, besides the obvious. Silver was good at reading people, better at reading what they wanted out of him and becoming that person, but Flint was still unpredictable. The uncertainty gnawed at him just as much as the anticipation.
Boots on the deck heralded the changing of the watch. Silver couldn't remember who had it - unusual, for him. He made it his business to know these things. Annoyance made his mouth draw tight. Flint was altogether too damn distracting. The door to the forecastle creaked open. One of the crew entered, walking unerringly among the hammocks until he found the one he was looking for. A couple of swift hits to the side of his relief's hammock, some grunting and a quick exchange of words, and now two sets of booted feet walked across the deck, one to his hammock, the other out the door to the weather deck.
Silver breathed slowly and evenly, waiting for the noise of shifting to settle beneath the snoring, and swung out of his own hammock, leaving his boots off. Tension crawled under his skin like the prickling of sparks from the cook fire. The deck was rough on his bare feet as he made his way through the hammocks, down the stairs, and to the relative quiet of the gun deck. The snoring was swallowed up quickly by the sound of the water, though most of the gun ports were closed against the spray. It was a dark night - not clouded, but with only a half moon. The flickering glow of a lamp came from the stern.
His fingers curled into his palms slowly. Flint was already here, though by his estimate there was still another half hour before the bell. It was a big ship, and with Silver not wearing his boots, Flint couldn't know he was there. He could wait for the bell.
The low shapes of the guns cast yawning, heavy shadows across the boards. Silver started forward with a firm set to his jaw. Whatever was waiting for him, whether it be the cane as Flint had threatened or the tip of his sword, Silver gained nothing from standing in the dark quiet of the ship's underbelly, choking on his own agitation.
There was no door separating the stern chasers from the rest of the gun deck, and so when Silver drew close enough for his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the lantern, they immediately went to the light cannon rolled away from its gun port.
"You're early."
Silver didn't startle - he'd expected Flint to lurk at the edge of the light, letting Silver come to him as he always had since their first encounter in his cabin. The captain was in his shirtsleeves and his trousers, his belt already discarded. He still wore his boots, unlike Silver. The sight of him, and the sound of his purposeful strides across the deck as he approached, sent a thrill of lust up Silver's spine. His tongue darted out to wet his lips almost unconsciously - he knew how the gesture affected the captain, but his mouth had gone dry.
"So are you," he said. "I didn't see the point in listening to them snore any longer."
The levity fell flatter than it usually did with Flint. He closed the distance between them, but he didn't grab Silver, or touch him at all. Silver could feel the heat of his body, could smell the sweat and seawater on his skin. His hands twitched, but he didn't reach to touch. There was something heavy in the air, something heavier in the way Flint looked at him, like he was weighing his measure.
"After I told you to go," Flint said, "you were listening at the door."
Silver's whole body locked up tight, fingernails digging into his palms. He could feel his breath coming faster already. He hadn't expected Flint to go right to the point, to cut past any euphemisms and stare him down like this. A shudder of premonition skated up the back of his neck, and he held Flint's eyes even with the way the captain's jaw trembled like he was fighting back a rage. Flint was looking for something - Silver was hoping it was honesty, because that's what he would get.
"I was," he said. He tried for confident - he managed to say it without his voice cracking, so that was something.
Flint took a step closer, and Silver retreated before him until the boards of the hull pressed against his back. Flint leaned in, his arms caging Silver on either side. He was close enough to kiss, but Silver stayed tense and waiting. That the man was not armed didn't lessen any of the danger - Silver knew full well what he was capable of with his bare hands.
"What is it that you were hoping to hear?" Flint asked - more like spat it through his teeth. They breathed each other's air, but it was far from intimate.
"I don't know," Silver said, sticking with honesty for now.
"Were you meaning to embarrass me? Slip a little something about the captain into your play-acting with the crew?"
Silver knew it wasn't very good for his continued survival, but he couldn't help the snort that left him. "You'd kill me," he said, utterly certain of it.
A tiny wrinkle appeared between Flint's brows. "What, then?"
The fear was fading, and defiance rose in its place. "Anything," he snapped, his hands coming up of their own volition to push against Flint's chest. It was solid under his hands, warm through Flint's shirt. "My god, we've been fucking for weeks and I still don't know a damn thing about you beyond what the rest of the crew knows. She sleeps in your cabin. Anything she would say to you is something I am interested in hearing."
Flint let one of his arms drop, giving Silver an avenue of escape, but Silver stayed where he was, his eyes still locked to the captain's. "You were jealous," Flint said.
"I wasn't-" Silver started, but a dangerous flash in Flint's eyes made the protest die in his throat. "Jealous. Yes, you could say that."
The wrinkle deepened. Some of the tremor in Flint's muscles, the tightness that spoke of barely-leashed violence, had drained out of him. "There is no cause for you to be jealous of Miranda," he said.
"I came to that conclusion myself after our conversation on the quarterdeck," Silver said. "It isn't Miranda I should be jealous of. It's her late husband."
The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Flint shoved away from the hull and took a step back, almost like Silver had punched him. "She told you," he said, a heavy rasp.
"I asked." Silver stayed where he was, leaning against the hull, his hands by his sides. This could still go either way. Flint looked as tangled up as he felt, and Silver was willing to bet that the captain wasn't sure why he had told Silver to meet him here any more than Silver was sure why he'd come.
Whatever vulnerability Silver had uncovered, whether it was the thought of Miranda talking about her husband with someone else or the thought of Silver knowing anything about his past, the captain's face hardened against it. "I can't have you listening at my door," he said. "The men will get the idea they can do it as well. A captain's cabin is private, and so are the conversations in it."
Flint held himself differently than the rest of the men. Silver had noticed it before - a straighter set to his shoulders, a stiffness to his spine, a surety in his stride that was missing from everyone else on the island. It wasn't until Flint walked to a storage shelf barely within the circle of the lamp-light and picked up a rattan cane that Silver was able to place it - he moved like a military man.
Silver swallowed hard. The cane was as long as the captain's arm, thicker than the instruments the merchant captains used. That would prevent it from leaving open wheals, but it would hurt no less. "You expect me to just bend over for that?" Silver asked, his voice reedy from his dry throat.
"I expect you to take what I give you," Flint said, holding the cane in both hands.
"You're that angry with me about this?"
The hardened expression wavered, and Flint stepped close to him again. He settled his fingers in the hollow of Silver's throat, brushing his thumb over the hinge of his jaw. "It's not about being angry with you," he said. There was a long moment of hesitation. Silver found he was leaning into the light pressure of Flint's hand on him. The touch, the focus of Flint's sharp gaze, the danger of the cane all combined into a dizzying cocktail of desire.
"You're not angry with me, then?" Silver asked - and now it was his turn to search Flint's face for a lie.
Flint didn't answer him at first. A soft tapping sound made Silver look down to find the end of the cane tapping against Flint's boot - the captain was not prone to fidgeting or nervous gestures. Silver took it to mean that he was weighing his words. "I was ready to be," he said. "I was prepared for you to plaster that smirk across your face and dare me to be furious with you."
"You can't think I'm that stupid."
"No," Flint said. "I almost wanted you to be that stupid. It would be easier than-" he cut himself off, teeth clicking together.
"Than what? The thought that I wasn't playing for an advantage? Would you rather I was trying to discover your secrets to use them against you?" Silver's hands itched to touch again, still remembering the feel of that broad chest under his fingers.
Flint scrutinized him. "Do you trust me?"
At any other time, Silver would have scoffed, would have repeated the question back to him, would have reminded Flint that they knew very well they didn't trust each other, and didn't have to in order to work together. This time, even the impulse was absent. They seemed to teeter on the edge of a high swell, ready to plunge down its face, and whether they stayed afloat or capsized seemed to be near entirely up to him.
"I want to," he said at last, "but I still don't know where I stand."
Flint let his hand fall away from Silver's skin - Silver tried not to lean after it like he was starved for the touch. The feeling of the captain's hands on him was always intoxicating, and this time was no different. Flint went to stand beside the cannon pulled away from its gun port, once more holding the cane in both hands.
"Whatever else we may be to each other, I am your captain first," he said. "If you were any other crewman and I caught you listening at my door, I would have you flayed before the mast."
Something hot and shivery thrilled through Silver's gut at the mere implication that they might be more, that Flint was making an exception for him. This was all wrong for ship's discipline - it would be a cat, not a cane, and Silver would be before the mast, and as the bo'sun, it would be Billy who administered it. This, then, was more far more about them than it was about Flint's position as captain, no matter what the man said.
"So what is this, special treatment because we're fucking?"
Flint's mouth twitched into a frown. "You said you wanted to trust me."
"You don't make it easy," Silver said.
"Neither do you. I still trust you to tell me when you've had enough." Flint swung the cane, letting it swish through the air with a hiss, and Silver jerked like the blow had landed. He was hard and straining in his trousers, hopelessly aroused, and that surprised him. He'd never been drawn to pain, not the way some were - but then, it was not the pain that was exciting. It was all of Flint's focus for him and him alone, the amount of control the captain would have to exert, even the risk that Silver would cry mercy and this would end badly for both of them.
Silver watched his face for any sign of deception. He didn't find it. "I trust you not to inflict any real damage," he said, and found that it, too, was the truth. He was not unafraid of the captain, but he felt safe in thinking that Flint would not hurt him when he was vulnerable. If Flint wanted him dead, it would be between them as equals and men, not when Silver was on his back. There would be no fingers around his throat in the middle of the night, no swords in the dark. If Flint came to kill him, he would know it was coming.
The air seemed to draw close around them both. Silver's focus sharpened on the captain. The sounds of the sea and the creaking of the ship were secondary to the sounds of their breath.
"Take off your clothes," Flint said.
Silver didn't hesitate. They had crossed a threshold of some kind, and he badly wanted to know what lay on the other side. He pulled his shirt off and tossed it aside, skinning out of his trousers just as quickly. When he stood bare, Flint crossed to him once more, his hand settling in the small of Silver's back, pressing him toward the cannon.
Silver's heartbeat throbbed in his ears. He let Flint steer him, bare feet making no sound on the deck. Flint's hand slid up his spine, under the fall of his hair, to wrap around the nape of his neck. Silver shuddered - partly from the contact, partly from the realization that they had fucked enough times that Flint knew his weak spots. The hand on his neck squeezed, and then Flint was pushing him down. Silver went without resistance, folding down to his knees beside the cannon.
He heard Flint take in a sharp breath from behind him and a small grin tugged at his lips. He wondered what it was the captain got out of this - was it the sight of him pliant and moving with Flint's direction, or was it the knowledge that Silver surrendered himself willingly?
"Will you need to be bound?" Flint's voice was low and rough.
"No," Silver said. He would trust Flint with the cane, and then only just. He didn't trust him enough to be put in ropes.
"If you reach back and I strike your hands-"
"I won't need to be bound," Silver said firmly. "If you try, I walk away right now."
Flint's thumb stroked over the knobs of his spine like a conciliatory gesture. "Bend over."
Silver took a long, deep breath, feeling like even his lungs were shaky. He leaned forward, the cold metal of the cannon's barrel sending a tremor through him as he rested his stomach across it. Flint's hand tightened on his nape again, as if he was soothing a skittish horse. Bizarrely, the gesture settled him. The wheels of the gun carriage rested between wooden chucks - he wouldn't have to worry about the damn thing rolling on him. Silver wrapped his hands around the carriage. Flint stood out of his range of vision - the captain's hand lifted away from his neck and Silver tensed, unable to see him or know where he was.
Then Flint's hand returned, skating over his side, adjusting the way he lay. Silver was more comfortable at the end of it, with the barrel snug against the bottom of his ribcage, his chest free to expand. His knuckles clenched white around the wood of the carriage, and he stared at the dark boards of the deck. Flint nudged his knees together with the tip of his boot.
"Ready?" Flint tapped him with the cane across the backs of his thighs, light enough that Silver only got the sense of its weight, not the pain that would come with harder blows.
Silver wet his lips again, swallowed to try and bring moisture to his mouth. He had always told himself quite firmly that his own life and safety were paramount - yet here he was, bent over for this dangerous man he could only barely trust, giving his body for Flint to do what he willed, with no witnesses.
He had made the decision to come here for a reason. Whether it was Miranda's words or his own desire to understand this man or some misguided sense of guilt for overhearing something so personal. "Yes, go on," he said.
His muscles locked up in anticipation. He heard Flint take a step - and then nothing. His own breath sounded too loud, his blood rushed in his ears. An agonizing handful of seconds passed. The tightness in Silver's shoulders eased - and that was when it came.
The sound of the cane cutting through the air heralded the impact, a bright line of pain across his arse. Silver gritted his teeth managed to lock the noise it provoked in his chest. His head fell forward, hair shadowing his face.
"How many?" His voice was a shaky croak, his hair hanging in his eyes. The line where the blow had landed throbbed, and Silver was certain he would feel it for some time.
"We'll see how many you can take," Flint said. The hoarse, rough quality was still there - Silver's cock twitched at it, despite the throbbing in his backside.
The second blow landed before he could gather himself, followed swiftly by the third. Silver couldn't choke back a cry this time. The muscles in his back strained as he fought to hold himself still - he would not give Flint any excuse to bring up the question of tying him down again. Flint was not landing the strikes atop one another, and Silver spared a dizzied thought that he must have done this before, perhaps as an actual punishment.
Flint landed the next strike on the back of his thighs, and this time his yelp of pain was embarrassingly high-pitched. The marks that the cane left were feverish, beating with his pulse, and a feeling like being drunk was beginning to curl up his spine. When the fifth blow landed on the crease where his thighs met his arse, it only served to fuel that sensation. Silver let out a wavering moan that sounded more like pleasure than pain. He was still hard - almost desperately so.
He jumped when instead of the cane, Flint's hand brushed over the swell of his arse. His palm was hot over the marks. He squeezed, and Silver hissed through his teeth. He was torn between pushing into the touch and flinching away. The feverish feeling rippled through him like waves. Whatever he'd expected, it wasn't this. He had thought to endure to gain the satisfaction of proving he could take whatever Flint gave him. Certainly, he had always enjoyed a rough fuck better than a gentle one, but this was something entirely different.
Flint's hand left his skin and Silver made a noise in his throat like a protest. A chuckle rolled over him from the captain, and he heard the cane swish through the air again, accompanied by the sound of impact on his skin and a new rush blood roaring in his ears. He felt the pain late, distant and prickling over his thighs.
The next three blows landed one right after another, the last of them crossing two other marks. Silver's back arched, though he didn't release his grip on the gun carriage. "Fuck."
"You're enjoying yourself," Flint said, sounding half-surprised.
Silver tried to make his tongue shape some kind of answer, perhaps a pointed remark that the captain was enjoying this too, but Flint struck him again, harder, a line of bruising fire. The shock of it was to blame for what spilled out of his mouth next - a ragged, wrecked cry of, "James!"
The blows stopped. Silver would have held his breath if he could stop panting, his chest pressed against the now-warm barrel of the cannon, his fingers aching from their grip on the carriage. At some point, he had closed his eyes - now, his eyelids were pleasure-heavy and wouldn't lift. His hair was damp with sweat, and his palms were slippery. It started to cool on his skin, and a shiver passed through him.
Then he was covered in heat, Flint's clothed body pressed atop his. Flint mouthed at the back of Silver's neck and bit, grinding his cock between the cheeks of Silver's arse, his thighs pressing hard against the cane marks. Silver writhed, the pressure on the marks sending hot bolts of lust straight down his spine. "James - fuck, fuck."
"Yes." Flint's breath washed hot over the back of his neck. "Tell me you want it."
Something like euphoria flooded through Silver, centering on his aching cock and the pain of the marks across his arse and thighs. Flint's teeth closed on the back of his shoulder, his tongue laving over the skin he'd captured, and Silver groaned loud and long at the sensation of a mark being sucked there. It would stand out vividly against his skin, just as the bruises from the cane would. Flint was writing his possession on Silver's body, and Silver couldn't get enough of it.
"I want you to fuck me," he said, slurred and distant.
Flint's warmth left his back and he made that half-whined, protesting sound again. His head buzzed, and his limbs felt loose and heavy, like he could sink to the deck and be happy to simply lie there.
The nudge of Flint's boot directed him to spread his knees. Silver moved slowly, uncoordinated and pliant to the captain's direction. A broad hand returned to the small of his back, and then one callused, slick finger pressed into him in a single movement.
Silver's breath left him in a rush and he pushed back against it. Flint pressed his weight into the hand on Silver's back, pushing him into the barrel and holding him in place. Another fingertip nudged into his arse, pushing and twisting. Silver was lost in it, sinking down into himself. He rocked into the hold Flint had on him, demanding more in hitched grunts and the roll of his hips.
"Look at you," Flint said. "Desperate and eager for me." His fingers withdrew, and Silver breathed out a long sigh when the weight on his back returned, the blunt press of Flint's cock slowly impaling him until Flint's thighs were flush against him.
Flint waited only a handful of breaths for Silver to adjust to his girth, then pulled back and thrust hard enough to send the skin of their thighs smacking together. Silver's mouth dropped open on a loud moan, his head thrown back. A jolt of pain radiated from the cane marks as Flint ground against them, mingled with the pleasure of being filled and thoroughly debauched.
Flint wrapped his hand in Silver's hair, pulling against it. Silver's cramped fingers uncurled from the gun carriage and he braced himself, one flat to the deck, the other skidding against the cold metal surface of the cannon. Flint thrust again, wringing another garbled sound from Silver's throat. Each motion of Flint's hips was hard enough to send the cane marks throbbing, at the same time grinding against the base of Silver's cock from the inside.
Silver's tongue was moving, shaping words - "F-ahh, fuck, James - yes God please" - blasphemy and praise and pleading all in one. He was spread open and pinned down, completely at the captain's mercy. His thoughts were as incoherent as the broken babble streaming from his lips, lost in his heartbeat and the sounds of their coupling.
"My God, John, you are-" Flint's sentence morphed into a ragged groan of pleasure, and his hand tightened in Silver's hair until his scalp stung. It only drove Silver higher, a coil of heat building in his loins every time Flint shoved into him. The captain bent over him again, putting his mouth next to Silver's ear. "You are gorgeous like this," he whispered, like a secret to be kept between the two of them. "You surrender so beautifully - and there is none other who will see you like this, is there?"
"No," Silver gasped, pulling against the grip Flint had on his hair just to feel the sting of it. "No, no- James, it's - god - too much."
The hand on the small of his back moved, and Flint's weight shifted. A strong arm wrapped around Silver's middle, pinning him tight against Flint's chest as the captain settled back on his heels, pulling Silver with him. Silver's thighs were spread across Flint's knees, his weight resting against Flint's hips and his chest. Flint's bruising pace was now a slow grind, the constant pressure on the cane marks setting them to throbbing in earnest once more. "Go on then," Flint said, fastening his teeth on the opposite shoulder from the mark he'd already left.
Silver's hand went straight to his cock, and he went off like a shot as soon as he touched himself, white flashes exploding behind his eyelids and all of his muscles clamping down like a man struck by rigor. Flint still ground into him, pressing against that spot inside that drew out his pleasure until his balls ached, emptied of all they could give. Only then did Flint growl something unintelligible into Silver's skin and still, shoving as deep as he could go and pulling Silver down to meet the final, hot pulse of his cock.
They remained fitted together as the sweat cooled the fever from Silver's skin. Flint shifted his grip, gently disentangling his fingers from Silver's hair and wrapping him up until he was nearly cradled to the captain's chest. It was new, different - usually this was when they gathered their clothes and went their separate ways. Now, Flint's mouth was pressed to his hair, and there was something like tenderness in the way his palms stroked along Silver's ribs.
Silver supposed it didn't matter anymore whether they stayed, not after what had passed between them. There was no illusion anymore that this did not go beyond the physical. Small tremors started to go through Silver's limbs as he came down from the bliss he'd been riding, and Flint's hands were warm, calloused and soothing, running over Silver's arms in slow caresses.
"There was a time I felt you weren't with me," Flint said finally, breaking the silence between them. "Where did you go?"
"I'm not sure," Silver said. "I couldn't hold a thought in my head. It felt like... the space between sleeping and waking."
Flint made a low noise that sounded like understanding. "Good?"
"Quite." Silver took a long, deep breath, letting it out slow, and repeated the action until the trembling left him. "And you - did you get what you were looking for?"
The captain's arms tensed around him. Flint remained silent for long enough that a creeping sense of dread began to rise in Silver. If this had been one-sided, if he had thrown himself into that naked vulnerability only to have the captain shrug it away like it was only one more encounter, it would be intolerable.
The worry eased when Flint finally spoke. "After I left England, it was only Miranda and I, and the whole of the earth seemed turned against us. It's difficult to form a friendship with the kind of life we lead. It took a long time to come to trust Gates, and then-" Flint stopped, squeezing Silver so tight for a moment that it forced the breath from him. Silver wrapped his fingers around one of Flint's arms, and the grip eased. "There are a hundred reasons for me to keep you at arm's length."
Silver was not prone to regretting his decisions, nor was he prone to guilt, so it was surprising to have that emotion settle like a cold stone in the bottom of his stomach. He forced himself to keep breathing evenly, to keep his voice steady. "The same, for me," he said. "Perhaps more. By and large, I'm not a threat to you. The reverse can't be said."
Now Flint drew away from him, their bodies separating with an embarrassing squelch. Silver slid from the captain's lap into an uncoordinated heap, leaning back on his elbows and looking up at the man. Flint still sat naked on the deck, watching him with a furrow to his brows, a frown pulling at his mouth, and something almost hesitant in his eyes.
"I won't harm you," he said, an admission that was so soft and earnest Silver almost couldn't believe it was coming from Flint.
He swallowed - a few days ago, that would have settled him. Now, it only made the cold feeling in his stomach expand until it lodged beneath his lungs. "I believe that more today than I did yesterday," he said finally. He rolled over until his side was pressed against the captain's thigh and leaned up, moving slowly enough that Flint could draw away if he wanted, to kiss him on the mouth.
Flint's palms came up to frame his face, cupping his cheeks. His beard scraped over Silver's mouth, rough and perfect, their lips hot against each other. Silver could lose himself in this, as he had lost himself beneath Flint's hands. It was so dangerous, and at the same time so tempting.
When they parted, some of the lines had smoothed from the captain's expression. "You should get back before you're missed," Flint said, although the words came slowly, as if he was reluctant to say them.
"I should," Silver said. He made no move to leave, though. It was comfortable here, with Flint's warmth pressed against his side. He could grow used to this, if he allowed it. That notion was what finally made him pull away and rise to his feet, looking around for his clothes. He couldn't allow himself to get used to this. Once the gold was recovered, he still planned to take his share and go.
They dressed in silence and stood facing each other across the dim ring of lamp-light. Flint looked at a loss for words, and beyond all expectation, Silver found that he did not know what to say either.
Finally, he settled on, "Goodnight, James."
"Goodnight, John," Flint answered. As Silver turned to go, he thought he caught a small smile on the captain's lips.
Everything was too damned complicated, now. Silver tried to regret coming here tonight, but found that he couldn't. It was too late to take back what he'd done, too late to reverse the betrayal he'd wrought. It was essential now that Flint did not discover it - or at least, if he did discover it, did not pin it on Silver. Not only because Silver was certain Flint would kill him regardless of any displays of post-coital affection, but because even more than before, Silver did not want it to be his name that put that small hitch in the captain's voice.
Regret was something new for him. Silver didn't like it overmuch. Still - if regret was the price he paid for the irrevocable knowledge that there was something growing between the two of them, something both dangerous and tantalizing, Silver would pay it gladly. He would find a way to neatly sidestep the problem the gold presented - and he would land on his feet, he always did. Only now, there was the added hope that Flint would still be there when it all came crashing down.