Read Online Pirate Code by Helen Hollick - Free Book Online Page B

lashes!” van Overstratten called, the satisfaction of what was now proposed unravelling to boast the promise of pleasant revenge. He leaned close to Jesamiah, his breath smelling of spiced wine and rich, Virginian tobacco smoke, his body odour of mild sweat masked by the subtle touch of cologne. “Are you sure you want to play the hero Acorne? It is not too late to change your poxed mind.”
    “Go piss yourself, you bastard.”
    Stefan laughed, stepped back a pace. Gestured to the Beadle. “Do your duty. And make sure you do it well.”
    Jesamiah braced, every muscle clenched, waiting, his breath sucking in through his mouth as the first blow fell, stinging across his bare shoulders; the whistle of the nine strands, the crack and snap as nine thongs straked his flesh. His body pressed against Tiola’s. His, clenched, rigid and hard, hers soft and yielding, willing him to allow her to absorb his pain.
    He gasped, murmured, “Sweet Mother of God!” Was it already a trickle of blood he felt, or sweat?
    Some of the crowd, the tavern keepers, shop owners; the craftsmen, marines and sailors of the navy, those who had come to leer, reckoned the count. “One!”
    The shout fell uneasily silent as a growl, like the low snarl of a panther, hummed from the watching pirates. The rat-tat , rat-tat-tat of their pistol butts drummed against leather baldrics, the stonework of a wall or wooden bollards. The tap-tap , of a musket stock or cutlass tip striking on the cobbles. An ugly murmur of disapproval joining with and rising above the condemnation of the whores’ rowdy catcalls. Pirates, degenerates, whoremongers and slovenly drunkards they may be, but they were also men who were bound together as brethren loyal to their own. And this deed being done to a respected Captain was disgracefully unacceptable to them, their running temper held in check merely by the recent-agreed amnesty.
    Jesamiah released his held breath, inhaled, gathered himself for the second blow. Two. Eighteen stripes on his back. For a moment, as with the first blow, the raised lines showed white, then the skin split and blood oozed.
    Three. No one counted now, save the Beadle’s assistant. Jesamiah knew for certain it was not sweat but the stream of blood. His hands grasped Tiola’s tight, desperate to hold on to his pride through her.
    She closed her eyes, concentrated on entering his mind, met nothing except a shout of pain. Tried again. ~ Jesamiah! Yield to me, let me help you. I have been trying to tell you, I will not feel it. ~
    Four. He moaned
    Thirty-six open wounds seeping over his shoulders and obliterating the yellowed bruising and scarring set there from his brother’s previous abuse. He shut his eyes, nuzzled his contorted face into her neck, hiding the burning endurance from the judgmental, silent, stare of the watching pirates. If he cried out he would lose their respect. And his own.
    The Beadle dipped the whip in a bucket of water to wash away the blood and snags of torn flesh. Brought it up, back, down. Five. Jesamiah groaned. He could not disgrace Tiola by passing out. Could not disgrace himself.
    ~ Let me do this for you, as you are doing this for me. ~
    ~ I…can…not… ~ Six. ~ Fokken hell… ~
    ~ Please Jesamiah. Please! ~
    And he surrendered, let her whole being flood through and into his mind and body. Allowed her to completely unite with and possess his soul.
    Everything fell into the distance as if a sea fog had suddenly swamped the entire island. Sound diminished, awareness faded, only this was not the cold and clammy discomfort of bleakness, this held the pleasantness of a midsummer morning mist. From Tiola he could smell the aroma of new-mown hay, and sweet-scented meadow flowers and herbs, all mixed with the salt tang of the sea; the odour of seaweed and tar, wet canvas and washed decks.
    No sound, nothing except the sharp intake of his own breath and her comforting, slower breathing, the rhythm deeper and controlled taking