like a rumbling bubble in her chest. She gulped several times, breathing quickly in and out, hoping to squelch it.
“Be warned: puke on me deck and you’ll regret it. And take those rags off before you catch your death,” he said.
Squinting at him, she searched for any sign of lustfulness, but found none. Turning her back, she did so, the shift, now so torn, nearly falling off on its own accord.
His path around the table brought him into the full light. She sucked her breath in sharply at seeing him fully for the first time. Her first impression was of black eyes and a leonine head of black hair and beard. The back of her neck prickled as the name “Blackbeard” sprung to mind. She stoutly reminded herself that infamous personage was long since dead. He was of average height and slimly built, his hair bound by a faded blue headscarf. The remainder of his features being so buried in beard, it was blessedly difficult to tell much more about him, other than he was probably not much more than her score and a half in years.
In spite of the bucket boots he wore, he moved like a great dark cat as he brought the drink around, barely making a footfall; a predator, lithe and lethal. She drew her legs up underneath herself and tucked in the coattail more snugly around her, then shakily took the proffered glass, murmuring, “Thank you.”
Cate took a drink. Her throat constricted, requiring her to swallow several times before it was allowed it to pass.
“Rum!” She shuddered. “But, it’s fine. I’m grateful for anything, if it will allow me to warm up.”
A fortuitous fit of coughing helped make her point.
He eyed her with suspicion, then took a drink, closing his eyes to anxiously await its effects. She eyed him, trying to judge his level of drunkenness. Drink could bring a man to do many things not done when sober. His step was solid, but his speech seemed thickened, almost slurred, although that could have been resultant of its graveled quality.
In spite of its noxiousness, she took another sip. If nothing else, the liquor helped erase the nasty taste in her mouth left by seawater and vomiting.
He flopped into the ornate captain’s chair across the table from her.
“Rather foolhardy to jump, don’t you think?” he asked, gesturing toward the Constancy, visible through the stern windows.
“There was an island,” Cate said with far less conviction than intended.
He made a caustic noise. “That would have been a bloody long swim. I’d be hard pressed to find two hands what would be willing to row it, let alone swim it. You do know there are sharks in these waters?” he asked conversationally.
Her stomach took a sickening lurch. “No, I hadn’t thought of that.”
His mouth hovered at the bottle’s rim as he cut her a sidelong look. “Can’t imagine why anyone would do something so half-crazed.”
The implication that she was either mad or lying wasn’t lost, nor was it appreciated. Cate flexed her hands, aching from being clenched for so long.
“I’d been told under no circumstances should I be taken by pirates.”
He smiled at that, a dazzling display of white and gold teeth splitting the ebony mat of beard. “I’ve been told the same thing. Nasty rumor, luv.”
He rose to cruise the room once more. His path weaving through the light, he popped in and out of sight like a sword-bearing wraith.
“The warnings were very convincing,” she said evenly. “The Sarah Morgan and Captain Nathanael Blackthorne were enough to scare anyone.”
“Ah, then you know of me. Spent the best part of me life propagating that image.” Though his face was lost in the gloom at that moment, the smile in his voice couldn’t be missed.
“Then may I assume that you are…?” Cate tensed. On deck, she had heard him called “Captain.” For formality’s sake, however, it was best to be sure. Amid the swirl of unknowns, a solid bit of information seemed essential. Liquid slopping on her hand broke her stare; she was shaking harder than she had thought.
“Oh, I beg your leave. Wretchedly uncommon to be introducing meself on me own ship.”
He drew up and struck a formal pose. Doffing the battered leather tricorn, he swept a surprisingly elegant bow. “Captain Nathanael Blackthorne. Your servant, mum.”
He scowled at seeing her shiver. She felt thoroughly sodden, the wetness of her hair having soaked through the coat. Chilblaines now set in. It seemed impossible that one could be so cold in