The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,154

become so accustomed to the liveliness of decks under her feet, the ground was too solid and unyielding, and never where her feet expected it to be. Giggling, she staggered against Nathan as he led her to the road, as if she had emptied Nathan’s half-full bottle.

“I don’t like this.” Nathan glared at the road, no more than a glorified path, and then her. “I don’t like it a-tall.”

“Nonsense. How difficult can it be?”

“You’re unarmed.”

Cate inwardly groaned at what had been another point of contention.

“I can’t very well claim to be an escaped captive wearing a pistol, now can I?” she said acerbically, as she had every time. Pryce had thankfully concurred, or Nathan would have never relented.

“Allow me to at least walk you to the—”

“And risk being seen together?” She arched a brow, driving home the unfortunate implications of that.

“Sundown,” Nathan warned, shaking a finger at her as if she were a wayward child. “I’ll be right here—as will you! Now, you have your knife?”

“Yes!” For no less than the fortieth time, she thought crossly. He had insisted on sharpening it himself to the point at which she wondered what kept it from slicing through her pocket.

Unperturbed—as always—Nathan pressed on, continuing to make her feel like that same juvenile being sent off for the first day of school.

“Mind your purse.”

“Don’t stop for any strangers.”

“Don’t walk too fast.”

“You should have a parasol.”

“Mind the heat.”

“Nathan, good-by,” she said with finality.

“I’ll be right here at dark. Can you remember that?”

“I’d have to be a complete dolt not to,” she huffed under her breath.

With an encouraging pat on the arm, she gave him a peck him on the cheek. She didn’t have the heart to look back as she took her leave, unable to bear his forlorn look.

Now ashore, there Cate stood at the literal and proverbial fork in the road. In all the briefings, no one had mentioned this. With no other option to hand, she followed the time-honored tradition: plucked a piece of grass, closed her eyes and dropped it. The blade fell pointing left, so left she went.

The road was no more than well-pounded wagon ruts dotted with the occasional oxen or horse droppings. Its width could almost be spanned by extending her arms. Privacy and solitude were scarce commodities on a ship, and so she strolled, relishing every moment. Her senses were assaulted with sights, smells, and sounds, and she eagerly devoured them all. She hadn’t felt terra firma under her feet, nor heard anything alive other than a seagull in over three months; St. Agua had been a cruel temptation. As she went deeper into the protection of land and trees, the air grew denser, becoming almost too thick to breathe. Stopping often in open-mouthed awe at the edenic forest, she experienced the same thrill of discovery that the first explorers must have suffered. The verdant lushness, bright jeweled tones of birds, insects, and flowers stabbed her eyes after months of naught but saturated blue. The smells alone made her heady: leaves, moss, green—yes, green did have its own scent—and ferns, mixed with the sweet, earthy smell of dirt and the pungent animal stench.

It was heavenly!

Amid the raucous calls from bevies of multi-colored birds, chittering and scolding could be heard: small, furry beings alarmed at her passage. Her step slowed at hearing a slithering rustle in the grass at her ankles.

“If it crawls, slinks, scuttles or slithers, don’t touch it!” had been Nathan’s admonition.

“No danger there!” she said aloud.

All too soon, she found herself in the middle of Hopetown. The sun’s heat and light glared off near-white of the crushed oyster shells which paved the streets. It muffled the clop of the horse hooves, the wheels of passing carriages and carts grinding softly. A small town by many standards, it seemed a metropolis to her. It wasn’t Edinburgh, London, or Bristol, but it was the largest—only—town she had been in for months. In many ways it was the same as every town: people scurrying about on their daily business, hawkers with their push-carts and colorful shop signs over the sidewalk, advertising their wares: silversmith, glassblower, tailor, tobacconist, or wigmaker. Palm trees notwithstanding, what separated this from the other cities were the multi-colored faces that peeked out from under the hats, bonnets, kerchiefs, and parasols: white, black, brown, and yellow, with every hue in between.

It was fascinating!

Cate peeked in the windows of the first few shops she passed. Glares from the proprietors set her on her way. The passing