© 2000

Molly crept from her rented room behind the rustic tavern. Edging cautiously around the corner of the Red Boar Tavern, she trailed a hand over the sun-warmed wall. She absorbed the warmth. Moonlight illuminated enough of her surroundings to keep her steps careful as she rounded the corner and stepped into the alley leading to the docks. The onset of evening had brought with it a chill breeze off the bay. Molly tugged the old woollen cloak around her securely, hiding her intentions from view.

The Segovia rocked in silvery light, creaking and groaning in protest although the waves were only a docile lick against the bow. Once upon a time the Segovia braved high seas adventure and insatiable acts of piracy. Now, the galleon, one of the least impressive vessels in Lord Jackson Weatherford's fleet, was said to have sailed its last voyage. Rumor had it that is, rumors that were discussed freely in front of the serving wench believed to be a simpleton, a mute simpleton at that. Molly had them all fooled, excluding the current Captain of the Segovia.

She'll never forget the moment she recognized the handsome captain. One quiet afternoon Molly took it upon herself to greet the Captain with some curious news. Her news had more impact simply because all, including the Captain, had assumed she was ignorant of all but her tasks as a lowly kitchen maid. Now the Captain looked upon her with a measure of respect, and he kept her secret in order to learn more.

It seemed Lord Jackson Weatherford neglected to inform certain key crew members aboard the Segovia of their futures. How many knew Lord Jackson Weatherford's real identity? A pirate, a rapist, a murderer, those were also part of Lord Weatherford's legacy. He left few witnesses behind. Very few. Some of the current crew had served Lord Weatherford back when he was Captain Jack or Black Jack. This new captain was one. The hijacking of the Emily Claire was a topic of discussion among many higher-ranking officials in Court. Even after all these years a mystery shrouded the ship. The ship was carrying a payload of some kind. Some speculated that it was a hoard of gold sent with an unimpressive elderly gentleman to deliver to a certain tobacco grower in the states. Others said there was a dignitary on board, one that owed a huge gambling debt and was escaping to the new world and the debtee had contracted out for revenge. Whatever the case, the mysterious massacre of the Emily Claire would not go away. Black Jack was nervous. The few who knew his background had little reason to wonder why he was so nervous. Those who knew him as Lord Weatherford, on the other hand, would be shocked to know of his past. The Segovia had been fingered as the only connection to the Emily Claire. Black Jack felt a change in the Segovia's status was necessary to save face.

Molly sneered at the memory of Black Jack. She would have time later to reflect on her plan of revenge against Black Jack. For now, the first step in her plan needed to be set in motion.

A planked gangway still connected the galleon to the dock. She waited a moment, observing the first watchman on deck, careful there weren't others. His tobacco mingled with the salty breeze. She inhaled, the aroma triggering a memory of a time spent with another man. Molly blinked back a tear.

Molly stepped from the shadows, a vision in black. Her pale green eyes scrutinized the watchman's movements. In the last half hour of her surveillance she had yet to see him move from his one spot. He continued to smoke his pipe, leaning against a recessed alcove near the main mast. He was lazy, she concluded, and wouldn't be too difficult to subdue.

She strode, confident and brisk, to the edge of the dock, flaxen hair braided down to the small of her back and swinging slightly with each step. A red ribbon signifying a whore-for-hire from the town of Concordia fluttered loosely at her nape. She clutched at her cloak, concealing the deadly rapier sheathed at her side and the pistol tucked into the waistband of her breeches. She lowered her head and walked determinedly up the gangplank.

"G'eve to ye, milady." The shipman leered with his crooked smile, pushing away from his perch. He stepped in front of her, cutting off her passage. "I see Cap'n has hired a little entertainment for the night. A might pricey one, by all looks." The shipman ogled Molly from the top of her head to the tips of her boots.

She lifted her eyes and gazed coolly into the lout's face and smiled a slow smile, meant to entice for only a minute, a distraction, before slamming the butt of her pistol into his temple. He fell to the deck with a grunt. She hurried past the slovenly heap. She presumed he wouldn't be out for long. A few minutes was all she needed anyway.

She followed the directions her informant had given her to the Captain's cabin. The door to his cabin gave way silently. Captain Farrell was at his desk and, just as she suspected, a young shipmate or cabin boy was also in the room. She watched the boy for a moment through the crack in the door. He wasn't armed, as most of the crew weren't, to prevent a mutiny, she guessed. Besides, the lad seemed harmless. She waited until the boy stepped away from the Captain's desk and busied himself with cleaning up the dinner tray before stepping completely into the room.

The captain sat hunched over his desk, his linen shirt pulled from his breeches, hanging open and loose over his torso. His brown doublet was tossed over the back of his chair and she noticed, with a smile upon her lips, that the dear captain was barefoot. He was intensely counting the notes stacked in several neat piles on his desk top. She knew the money to be a small fortune made from Lord Weatherford's latest cargo deliveries. The notes were enough for her to live off of forever, at least by her standards, and enough to form a noticeable dent in Lord Weatherford's fortune.

A candle sputtered with the breeze through the open door, catching the burnished brown of the Captain's long hair. He didn't keep it tied back at the nape as was the convention at the time, instead sweeping it back from his brow, accentuating his hawk-like features. He was an appealing man.

Molly stepped silently into the room, her eyes never leaving the captain. She spied the cabin boy from the corner of her eye and he hadn't noticed her entrance either. It really didn't matter if he had at this time because what happened next happened very fast. She pushed her cloak from her shoulders and stood, legs shoulder-width apart and strongly set. Her rapier sliced through the musty air with a sharp metallic zing. The Captain's head snapped around to meet her amused glare. The cabin boy gasped. She was already staring down the barrel of her pistol at Captain Farrell.

"Well met Cap'n Farrell. A fine night it is to be countin' out m'fortune." She winked at him over the pistol, a smile turning up the corners of her rosy mouth.

Captain Farrell's storm gray eyes studied the woman, a look of amused disregard on his handsome face. He took his time studying her long legs clad to the thighs in leather boots, a studded scabbard slung low over her hips. The blonde wore a man's tunic, several sizes too large, which now slipped seductively from one shoulder. He watched her breasts heave through the open laces of the man's shirt before his eyes met hers over the barrel of Molly's pistol.

"I prefer my whores unarmed, milady." Captain Farrell said coolly.

"The notes, Cap'n. 'Tis all I be wantin'" The smile left her face. "For now." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "An' if ye think ye can try anything funny, yer lad will get a little surprise, too." Molly jerked her head, indicating the frightened boy.

She touched the tip of her rapier beneath the cabin boy's chin. A bead of red stained the tip of her blade, drip-dripping blood down the front of the boy's shirt. She turned her cat-like gaze back to the Captain.

"Stand and deliver, sirrah. I'll take the notes, stuffed nice and pretty in that pouch on your desk, if you please." She pulled the sword away from the cabin boy and smiled prettily. "Now."

Captain Farrell's eyes followed the path of her thin sword. It touched his chest, ripping a slash down the front of his old nightshirt. A few more strokes and the shirt was in tatters. She smiled sadistically.

He took his time stuffing the notes in the cloth bag, his eyes shifting from her to the sword to the notes.

"Very well, Cap'n. I see you can follow orders." She paused to admire his chest, dappled down the center with dark hair, a darker strip disappearing into his breeches. "I think it would please me if you would remove your garments." Molly flirted over the barrel of the pistol.

"What?"

"'Tis a simple request, sirrah. Drop your trousers."

He loosened the drawstring on his breeches, slowly, his eyes never leaving her face. Molly watched his deft fingers working the trousers past his hips. He stood before her, his cock half-erect.

She nodded. "Aye Cap'n. A nice piece. Too bad I don't have the time."

"I take it that means you didn't kill the watchman?"

"A might careless of you to post only one watch tonight." Molly commented with a laugh. "Two would have been more of a challenge."

"The Devil take ye, woman."

She laughed. "That he already has, m'lord. Now, tie your boy up. Wouldn't do for him to be alertin' the neighbors, now would it? By the way, all the crew are out and about this eve or are there more I can rouse from their bunks?" Molly passed her tongue over her lips. "The boy, Cap'n. Now."

Captain Farrell turned slowly and padded over to the juvenile. She admired the way his muscles worked and flexed, enjoying the contrast of darkly tanned chest, back and legs, his tight backside a paler shade of tan. He spoke softly to the boy, like she knew he would, carefully binding the boy's hands behind his back and tying him to a chair.

"Very good, Capt'n. I like the way you follow orders. Now. See that window right behind you?"

She watched in amusement as a muscle worked in his jaw. "Yes, that one right there."

"Yes," he answered.

"Open it. It's a beautiful night for a swim, don't ye think, sirrah?"

"What? That--"

"Ah, ah, ah. No arguments. The window, Cap'n. Open it."

She opened a small cut on his arm. He stepped back, reaching for the latch on the window.

"Be a good fella and climb through."

Captain Farrell glared at her.

Molly pushed at him from the window with the tip of her blade, smiling at the loud splash heard seconds later.

The streets of Concordia were busy this night, Molly noted, as she walked swiftly through the crowd. She kept a sparsely furnished room above the Red Boar tavern, the small comforts of a straw mattress, a trunk and a roughly made table and chair were all she could afford. The clean linens cost extra, a rare luxury for now.

One candle illuminated the room. She busied herself with lighting two more. She removed her cloak, hanging it on a peg behind the door. Thomas burst through the door as she was removing her belt and scabbard.

"Molly?" He breathed eagerly.

"It's all done, my dear. Nice and neat. I told you it would be, didn't I?" Molly smiled over at her young companion taking in his mussed appearance. He reeked of liquor again. "Truly, Black Jack will probably never miss this fortune. We are only getting our due, after all."

Sixteen-year-old Thomas trotted after her like an eager puppy. Not that his behavior around her was anything new. Thomas had been her little companion since the massacre on the Emily Claire eight years earlier.

"Did you kill him?" Thomas asked eagerly, interrupting Molly's thoughts. He began wringing his hands together in a fashion she found most irritating these days.

"No need. There were only three to deal with this time and one of them a mere boy. If I guess right, neither one of them will be making a loud to-do over the robbery, it being done by a woman. Cuckolded by the likes of a serving wench." Molly laughed, turning to face Thomas. "Now, be a good boy and fetch me a drink."

She watched, mildly contemptuous as Thomas hurried to the trunk, yanking the latch free, and slamming the top into the wall. He rummaged through their meager belongings until he found the flask. He uncorked the crude container, pouring a splash of the hoarded liquid into their only crystal snifter, a glass 'procured' from their last home.

Molly pulled the shirt from her breeches, flouncing into the chair. She stretched her long legs out in front of her with a yawn.

Thomas handed the whiskey to her, the crystal cradled carefully in two hands. "What now, Molly? Do we leave tonight?" He knelt at her feet, tugging at her boots.

Molly breathed deeply of the pungent liquor. One day it would be a fine port, sipped from her own store of fine crystal, not ill-begotten while on the run. "Not to worry, my boy. Haven't I always seen to our future?" She lifted the glass, staring through the amber-brown liquid. Thomas had managed to work one of the boots free. He ran his hand up her leg, finding the top edge of her stocking. He rolled the stocking from her outstretched leg placing a kiss on the arch of her foot.

"You always take good care of me, Molly." Thomas began to work her other boot loose. "I want to take good care of you." He smiled wolfishly, his expressionless eyes glazed over with too much drink.

Molly studied the top of his sandy head as he knelt before her. The whiskey burned a path down her throat, warming her stomach. The warmth never reached her heart.

Thomas removed the boot and stocking. His hands slid up her thighs, reaching for the drawstring to her breeches. His hand brushed over her pubic mound. Molly suppressed a shudder. "Is this--?" Thomas stopped, his hand clutching the pouch tucked at her waist.

"--all that will be our future, Thomas." Molly smiled. She sipped from her glass. He carefully placed the pouch full of notes on the table by her pistol. His face had grown serious. He turned back to Molly, reaching up to unfasten her breeches. Molly continued to watch the dull expression of Thomas, wondering exactly what he was thinking. Her free hand worked the braid loose from her hair. She shook the golden mass, scratching her scalp.

Thomas laid his head on Molly's chest, feeling the heaving of her bosom with her measured breaths. Molly thought about her latest booty, hardly revenge against the man formerly known as Black Jack, but still it gave her a small measure of satisfaction. Had it really been eight years ago when her life was turned upside down by the pirate known as Black Jack?

One moment a virginal sixteen, happily sailing to the colonies to be married to her fiancÇ, the next a stunned captive of a murderous rampage. Her life was over. She resigned herself to the fact when, amidst the burnings and slashing aboard the decks of the Emily Claire, her father's blood had splashed across her skirts. She watched in disembodied horror, his torso butchered in front of her, her mother raped over his dead body. She shrunk away into a dark place, ripped back to the burning light with a blow to the side of her head. She stared blankly into the dead black eyes of a man, a monster.

The screams aboard ship were fading. Bodies lay in heaps, the pungent aroma of burning flesh and tar making her gag. The monster was dragging her, his bloody hand entangled into her once carefully arranged hair the other hand still wielding a saber. Molly was handed roughly to another sailor, one with fetid breath and rotten teeth. She felt his hand squeeze her girlish breast. She wanted to scream but nothing came out. He hauled her roughly across the sticky plank deck. Somewhere along the way she lost a slipper. She stared at her ripped stocking, her toes already black with filth and peeking ridiculously through the hole. She retreated back into the dark place when she was slammed into the main mast.

Molly stirred. The pain that pervaded her small body made her whimper. She gasped at the sudden onslaught of a club to the side of her head. Her head lolled forward, once again throwing her into darkness.

She awoke this time, realizing she was unable to move. She had lost all feeling in her arms, bound above her head tightly to the main mast. Her bodice hung open, her small breasts naked and exposed to the sun and sea, and to the eyes of the crew. Her gold hair now hung in front of her face, brushing her shoulders in wind-swept ropes. She jerked as her skirt was ripped. She met the eyes of the black-eyed monster, the beast who killed her family and destroyed the Emily Claire. He sneered, slapping her once again.