ooze used to lubricate the masts, and then directed a speculative look toward Cate’s hair. For the briefest of moments, she had harbored a sinking sensation he mightn’t be jesting.
Shaking his head in a jangle of bells, he had shoved the paddle back in place. “It would appear mankind has not yet made the discovery.”
Given sufficient attention, her hair could be coaxed into orderliness, hanging in smooth coils about her shoulders. The first touch of breeze, however, and it would be back to the “maddening tangle.”
Sighing—for there was little to be gained—Cate put the brush away and left.
She had become enough of a mariner to notice the moment she stepped outside that the wind had shifted. More astern now, it meant the Morganse was “running free,” moving with the wind. It rendered the decks quite airless. The forecastle would be the only hope of any relief. Cate arrived there to find Hermione had taken up residence on her seat. It required being more stubborn than the goat, but eventually Cate shooed her away, Hermione casting a complaining bleat cast over her shoulder as she clopped down the steps.
Cate was barely situated before the cry of “On deck there!” came from the lookout straight overhead on the foremast.
Pryce and Nathan, glasses in hand, met at Cate’s either side.
“Where away?” Nathan threw to the foretop.
“Hull up ’n one point free to larboard.”
The men peered with great interest at the speck of white pricking the horizon, dead ahead, visible only on the rise of the swell.
“Do you see what I see, Mr. Pryce?” asked Nathan over her head. A piece of jerked meat was tucked into the corner of his mouth.
“Aye! A fowl fittin’ to be plucked.”
“Something about this one not to my liking,” Nathan said after some moments.
Nathan arranged Cate at a kevel and handed her the spyglass. “Hold this and watch that.”
“What should I watch it do?”
The corner of his mouth quivered. “Just watch.”
Several rounds of bell, changing of the watch and aching arms later, Nathan came up behind Cate. He peered interestedly over her shoulder, the ship now hull up regardless of the swell.
“Well?”
“Nothing,” she sighed. Her hopes had soared at the prospect of having something of significance to report, so that she might appear seaworthy just once.
“Nothing, eh?” Nathan said with something between surprise and doubt.
“Nothing except a bunch of men saluting each other on that deck back there.”
“Poop deck, darling,” he said taking the glass and gazing through it. “That is a poop deck and a glorious one, indeed.”
Pryce came alongside, pulled out a pocket glass, and together the men considered the not-so-distant ship, coming on like a charging ram.
“Nothing more entrancing than the shine of midshipmen’s buttons, unless it’s the captain’s, eh Mr. Pryce? And pray look at all those shining brass buttons,” Nathan said.
“Shining and glorious indeed,” Pryce said, his grin looking almost skeletal. “Looks like she’s usin’ yer trick o’ paintin’ canvas so as to conceal her guns.”
“Aye, well, they do claim imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”
Nathan lowered the glass to glare at the triple fleur-de-lis flying from the mizzen stay. He made a caustic noise. “French my aged aunt’s ass. Well done,” he declared, patting Cate on the shoulder.
She beamed under his praise, in spite of not having the faintest idea as to what she had done.
“A wolf in sheep’s clothing ’tis what we have here,” Nathan explained to her confusion. “A Royal Navy frigate she is, looking to entertain us with her innocence.”
“’Pears to be the Valor,” Pryce said after further examination. “A sixth rate twenty-four and none so grand as our sixteens.”
Cate nodded, trying to appear to take the meaning of that bit of information—the Valor carried twenty-four guns, none larger than what the Morganse sported—with the significance intended.
“Commanded by Captain Eldridge Prichard, and a worthy foe he is, when he’s sober enough to find the poop. A slave to the Demon Gin he is,” Nathan added.
“The waters are fair stirred up these days,” Pryce said with significance.
Nathan batted his lashes affectedly. “Can’t begin to put me mind as to why.”
Pryce seemed inclined to make further comment but resisted.
Redirecting his attention to the Valor again, Nathan made a sarcastic noise. “Anyone with half o’ brain would wear ’round, and tear off like smoke and oakum at the sight of our sails. He desires us to believe he doesn’t know who we are and that we are too cod-headed to have smoked who he is.”
Nathan scanned the water and cast an