The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,142

that’s entirely necessary, Mr. Pryce?” Nathan shot back testily.

“She’s a right to declare and witness her justice.” The proclamation came evenly, without prejudice.

Nathan barely glanced over his shoulder at her. “The lady declines. You know me wishes.” His voice dropped to a rumbling vehemence. “I want them dead, the worst way possible. If that means a slow-match to their balls, allow me to be the one to light it.”

An arch of his brows indicated Pryce didn’t disagree. “One didn’t live to face his crime.”

“A knife to the liver is known to do that,” Nathan said laconically. “You be the Quartermaster, Pryce. Dispensing of justice is at your pleasure. You’ve always proven to be most imaginative.”

Pryce’s composure faltered. Cate’s fogged mind was able to grasp his surprise: Nathan had just absolved him of any hesitancy or guilt, freeing him to deal with Nathan’s fate the same as anyone else. If Nathan were to fall under the hammer of ship’s justice, Pryce’s likelihood of assuming command would hinge on his lack of prejudice or allegiances. He would also be the only barrier between her and the rowdy mass outside.

“Carry on, Master Pryce,” Nathan said, cutting off Pryce’s attempts to object. “I’ll attend directly.”

Puffed with displeasure, Pryce touched his forelock and left.

Nathan’s braids fell in a curtain about his face as he studied his blood-caked hands. Would the men the blood as hers, or that of the man he killed? Surely, if they saw the one, they would realize the other, or would pirates only see the blood of a fallen comrade and want more in the name of revenge?

“I’ll be fine. Go.” It was surprising how effectively she was able to lie again.

Nathan looked up and curved a wry smile. “Do you ever say that and mean it?”

His smile broadened in gratitude. “This shan’t take long.”

It was unclear if he spoke for his benefit or hers.

Cate glassily watched him leave, straining to fully appreciate what he was about to face: a court of his peers passing judgment on the slaying of a mate, a member of the Brotherhood. Murder or justifiable? It was reasonable to believe justice would come swiftly and wouldn’t be gentle. Beyond that, her concussed mind was unable to fathom.

Icy talons of shock and numbness sunk deeper into her gut. A part of her argued she should move, do something. No decision came, however, the task of standing consuming every shred of will. Her gaze drifted, eventually coming to rest on a corner of the rug upon which she stood. Not necessarily fascinating, but with no motivation to do else, there she remained.

A rap on the doorframe stirred her sufficiently to murmur a response. Jensen shyly pushed his way in bearing a ewer of steaming water. His brilliant flush stirred her self-consciousness and she tugged at the fragments of her bodice to something more decent. Frowning, Jensen’s mouth moved as he filled the basin. The words thudded in her ears, as if heard underwater. He turned with an expectant look. She nodded, only because she thought she ought. With that, he left.

Cate was dimly aware of the rising turmoil of the crew assembling on deck. Still muzzy-headed, the words were lost, but the mood was readily judged. Tension? Yes. Blood-thirst? Not yet. Her senses pricked at the sound of Nathan’s voice, loud and gruff above the rest. Commanding? Yes. Defensive? Not in the least. She tried to concentrate, wanting to know—needing to know more—but that battle had been lost before it had begun.

Wash.

The directive, simplistic enough to be grasped, came from somewhere within. Cate fumbled, the ties of skirt and the laces of her stays being maddeningly elusive. With a shrug of the shoulders, her shift fell away, landing at her feet. With arms that seemed to be someone else’s, she wet the sponge and began to mechanically dab. The room was warm, yet her skin was icy to the touch. She looked at the blood-smeared limb. Sickness rose at the back of her throat at wondering whose blood it might be. Slowly turning a hand before her face, she examined the scraped knuckles and broken nails. The sight stirred recollections, but nothing tangible enough to be grasped. The light glinted on the hairs snagged under one nail and revulsion seized her: they weren’t hers. Her gaze drifted down to her naked body. She swayed at seeing the patches of blood, oozing scrapes and welling bruises. Her thoughts moved like rusted gears as she strained to piece it back