Read Online Devi's Paradise by Roxane Beaufort - Free Book Online

weakness. He didn’t hesitate to order flogging, marooning, and even hanging miscreants. He was a natural born leader and they avoided any dispute with him or the hard-hitting Johnson, his second-in-command. His other officers were respected, too. Peter Quidley the doctor, Hector Arkwright who doubled as carpenter and ship’s surgeon, Giles Medway the quartermaster, Sancho and Browne, boatswain and first mate, and the keeper of the books, Henry Moorcross. He combined the duties of accountant and secretary, a vital member of staff, and now Armand studied him from under curving black brows.
    Henry sat at the far end of the table with an open ledger in front of him, a squat brass inkwell and a quill pen to hand; ready to strike off each man’s name and payment as they filed past him. Armand trusted him to the letter and was glad to have him around, for he was educated and learned, and provided good conversation. Armand found he was jaded sometimes, wearied of Sabrina and his other concubines. They never talked, only fucked. Even that morning Sabrina had angled to be present, wanting to sit beside him and distract him by playing with his cock, but he denied her. This was man’s business, and she was greedy and would have been assessing the loot as astutely as any pawnbroker.
    His lips twitched as he glanced at Henry, who was a serious, tight-featured person with an almost puritanical mien. Wearing black broadcloth he looked more like a bank clerk than a freebooter. Armand knew he was a pederast. That was the reason why he had been forced to run from England to escape a gaol sentence, his life in tatters after one of his lovers had squealed. Fortunately for him no one here gave a fig about his taste for sodomising youths. Each to his own was their motto.
    As Johnson said, when in his cups, ‘Get it any which way you fancy, Henry, my old cully, for you might be dead tomorrow… nay, even later today! Life is bloody short in the Indies.’
    Articles had been drawn up and were strictly adhered to. The captain and officers got a larger share than the others, whether or no they actually took part in a raid or sea battle. Special provision was made for those who were wounded or lost a limb during an engagement. Penalties were imposed for any breach of regulations, the project organised like a naval campaign.
    The prize was not a large one, but there was a heap of captured weapons and ammunition, some bales of silk, a chest full of doubloons, various articles of clothing, a quantity of food and several casks of wine. Those who had avoided being killed while resisting the pirates had been set adrift in an open boat, taking their chance of reaching a friendly shore, and the ship was stripped of anything useful and then scuppered. But they had taken one prisoner, a violinist.
    ‘We’ll get him to join us, captain,’ muttered Johnson from behind Armand’s chair. ‘He’ll have no bloody choice. Either that or…’ and he sliced a gnarled finger across his throat from ear to ear.
    ‘But we already have one fiddler,’ Armand pointed out, disgruntled because there hadn’t been any women aboard. There were females aplenty on the island, slaves and native girls, but he always hoped that someone more stimulating might turn up.
    ‘We can do with another, sir,’ Johnson pointed out. ‘The lads like a bit of music, a jig or two or a few songs. It helps break the monotony, if you know what I mean.’
    ‘Indeed I do,’ Armand said dourly. His life was too calm at the moment. He missed a challenge to lift his spirits. One could have it too easy. ‘No females aboard?’
    ‘No, sir. The lads will just have to make do with the brown wenches for the time being. Are you planning a trip to Cayona soon? Jolly doxies there. Lasses who were transported because they were whores, and they make a fine living when the boats put in. Hell, I can’t wait to see ’em. Big tits, big arses and juicy quims. They’re English and French and all sorts,