on the Valor’s side, shockingly white against the deep blue hull. “I pity the poor sod what will have to hang his bare ass between the Devil and the deep blue sea to do so.”
Nathan shrugged as he turned away. “A week or so, and someone will come looking.”
“And Commodore Harte?”
He stopped and turned, his smile broadening. “Will be oh, so very annoyed.”
Whoops and hoots of celebration broke out as more men topped the gunwale, returning from the raid.
The celebration was on.
The Ciara Morganse was on the prowl again.
Chapter 7: Havens
If the sails were a ship’s heart, then the tar was the Morganse’s lifeblood. The black goo coated every inch of the standing rigging, the sun’s heat often causing it to drip in glob-like rain. In combination with oakum, it was tediously packed between every plank, literally keeping the ship afloat. Tarring, consequently, was a never-ending task, the smell of tar stoves, hot pitch, and loggerheads as prevalent as the sea itself. That same lifeblood, however, in swinging bucketfuls on lurching decks was a hazardous combination. Burns were commonplace.
On tarring days, Cate came to keep the stoneware jar of burn ointment and bandages in a basket at the ready. She knew the high-pitched scream unique to burns. Of all the injuries, she found burns to be the most difficult to face. Pirates were a stoic lot, but burns often pushed them beyond the pale. Her patient often gone white with pain, herself feeling a peculiar shade of green, she swallowed down the rising bile as she tweezed the raw, seeping flesh clean, applied salve, and then the wrapping.
One such day, she heard the familiar scream. Rising instantly, she grabbed the basket at her feet and followed the commotion to her next patient. He sat on the forecastle steps, hunched over his arm, rocking in silent agony. The offending tar had been yanked away, leaving an open, oozing blister nearly the size of her palm. With eyes only for the injury, she knelt to inspect, setting the basket next to her.
“I knew eventually I’d have you servin’ me on yer knees.”
She froze at the voice and looked up into Bullock’s scarred face. He saw her surprise and grinned insolently. She ducked her head, intensifying her focus, but could still feel his brooding glare. Resting his arm on his thigh, he didn’t extend it as much as he might, forcing her further between his knees. He groaned and swore, making a large show of his suffering, all the while leaning back, obliging her to come nearer yet. His breath blew hot on her neck. She inched away, but not far enough for comfort’s sake—at the taffrail would have been too close. From the corner of her eye, she saw the grimed fingers pluck a lock of her hair from on his leg.
“Hmm! Be yer quim the same color, darlin’?”
Cate tried to rise, but was stopped by his foot on her skirt. He made no attempt to move it.
Bullock's comment had been uttered loudly enough so that there was no mistake, yet low enough for her ears alone. Glancing around, Cate saw that Bullock had timed the comment well. A burn was nothing new, this one too minor to draw comment. On a deck filled with men, they were alone.
She jerked her hair free of his grasp. Biting back several retorts, she prayed her hands to be steady, determined not to let the bastard think she was afraid of him. Still, she couldn’t meet his gaze and he knew it. Over the smell of tar and burned flesh was his reek, a combination of sweat and animal lust.
Bullock bent, his lips brushing the top of Cate's head. “The Cap’n thinks we’re over here a-exchangin’ love notes.”
She shook with the effort to not flinch, carefully measuring what it would take to land an elbow squarely in his crotch. Loath to cause a scene, she refused to play into his game, although she fancied an accidental slip of the tweezers, gouging the raw flesh.
Keeping her eyes fixed on her work, Cate strained to recall where she had last seen Nathan: on the quarterdeck, virtually the length of the ship away. Of course. Bullock wouldn’t have had the courage, else. It was a small blessing: Bullock was dangerous in more ways than one. A “goddamned, swivel-tongued, son-of-a-double-eyed Dutch whore,” as Pryce had called him, the man was the contagious type. His agitations could spread through a ship faster than wharf fever. Causing a scene, obligating Nathan