the same space sharing nothing more than each other’s company.
Companionship.
A concept too readily dismissed. It wasn’t necessarily a bad word, unless one was to desire more, so very much more. Still, to a soul drowning in desolation, it was a floating bit of flotsam upon which to cleave. Cate basked in it. In spite of his preoccupation with matters of his ship, it was near enough to having him to herself.
For Nathan, sailing was as compelling as religion. To interrupt his rituals felt a violation of its sanctity. It was a chance to see him in his most natural state, no facades, no pretense. He was pensive and methodical with his log and charts, making entries, checking and rechecking courses. With delicate surety, he walked the brass dividers over the chart in their measured increments. His mouth sometimes screwed aside in deep thought, or moved as if in private conversation as he calculated, his fingers mathematically tapping the surface.
During one such inner dialogue, Nathan looked up from under his brows. They drew together at seeing him flex Cate’s hand. Final notes were scratched in the log, sanded and brushed. Closing it, he rose and pulled his chair around so that they sat knee to knee.
Nathan took Cate's hand and, cradling it as if it was made of glass, began massaging. She twitched at the uncommon breach of the meticulously maintained margin between them. He ducked his head in apology, thinking he had been too rough. They lived in close proximity like a married couple, and yet without the remotest hint of intimacy. Broaching that perimeter happened, but rarely: when they both reached for the coffee pot, pointing to a spot on a chart or during her knot-tying lessons. She tended to start when that happened, drawing back as if burned. While he shied and often bolted, she was left with a tingling sensation, as if touched by St. Elmo’s fire. All in all, it was doubly surprising for him to be so attentive just then.
“What the hell were you doing?” Nathan finally asked, without looking up.
“Writing letters,” she said, wincing.
He made a cross-sounding noise. “You led me to believe ’twas only for one or two, not the whole damned complement.”
“As I thought…at first.”
Nathan rose. With a few adroit flicks, he undid the strip of rag at his wrist which secured the leather palm and tossed both aside. From her blood box, he took the Roman-numeraled Number 37 jar of salve and a stoppered bottle of oil. He scooped a bit of salve, added a few droplets of oil, and then dribbled molten wax from a candle into his palm.
“You’re not the only one with a few cures,” he said to Cate's curious look.
He worked the concoction between his hands as he sat and took her hand once more. Her fingers clawed inward, except the middle one, which stuck out at an odd angle. The sweet, earthy scent of beeswax and sharp, resinous smell of camphor rising between them, he cradled her hand in his and with gentle deftness worked, divining with surprising sensitivity where the soreness lurked in every knuckle and joint.
Nathan's hands were always a fascination, Cate's fatigue rendering them that much more spellbinding. The warm moisture of his breath brushing her forearm suffused her with sensations stirred from a long, deep sleep. It had been years since a man had touched her other than in violence. She flushed with longing and allowed herself to imagine what else those nimble hands might do.
“Let the cack-handed clods write their own,” Nathan grumbled.
Caught so far afield, it took Cate a moment to find her tongue. It wasn’t worth a reply, anyway. He knew full well the men didn’t because they couldn’t. This sudden flush of protectiveness was both surprising and touching.
“Why didn’t they come to me or Pryce?” Nathan said moodily.
“Because you’re men,” she said with the strained patience that came with exhaustion.
“What’s that have to do with it?”
Too tired to argue, Cate shook her head, rubbing her temple with a free hand. “They desire privacy.”
“You know.”
“Because I’m a woman.” She looked up to find Nathan grinning. “What?”
The smug grin broadened. “It would appear you’ve arrived.”
Cate shook a head too fogged by weariness to follow. “Do you ever make any sense?”
Busily massaging, Nathan lifted an unapologetic shoulder and let it fall. “Don’t always have to. Sometimes, ’tis easier not, but I am now. Do you not see? The men, they’ve accepted you; they trust you more than I or Pryce. Bravo,