The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,230

bracelet clattering softly as Cate touched the decorative knot of her necklace. Nathan was with her; she wasn’t alone after all.

Crossing the Straits turned out to be the minor issue. Faced with the hazards of coral, rock, and sand, and a treacherous current, impending darkness lent urgency to the Griselle, her captain, and her crew in finding an anchorage where to lie in wait. Once his ship was secure, however, and the watch lamps were being lit, Thomas fetched Cate and escorted her to his cabin. Beneath the quarterdeck, the Griselle’s Great Cabin was smaller, but still spacious. It was cozier, with Turkish rugs jig-sawed on the floor, soft elbow chairs, pillows and hassocks. Stacks of books nestled against chair legs, on the gallery sill, chart table and a corner desk. The room spoke of a man who enjoyed his comforts, but not his excesses.

“Plan on sleeping over there,” Thomas said, waving a vague hand toward a curtained corner. “You’ll find the bunk and necessaries. If there is something you lack, pass the word for either me or the cabin boy. Where has that little snip skulked off to now?” he muttered, looking about. “Anyway, he’ll be around. Vittles should be directly. I hope you like Spanish and Moroccan; the cook’s from there, so that’s what we eat,” he finished, with a half-apologetic shrug.

Cate nodded vaguely. Spanish food was familiar; Moroccan was quite another thing.

They stood in the middle of the room, looking anywhere but at each other.

“I think a drink would answer,” Thomas said finally and strode purposefully to a leaded glass cabinet. Returning with bottle in hand, he saw her seated.

Thomas poured with hands as battered as Nathan’s. Some knuckles were slightly misshapen from bits being severed away. Like Nathan’s, several of his fingertips ended at odd angles. The backs of his hands and forearms bore a fine latticework of scars, light against his deep bronze. Judging by the scar on his right hand—starting between the second and third fingers and going up—it had been nearly cleaved in half. A miracle that he had its use, it bothered him, for he often flexed it.

The wine proved to be a heady one, a deep burgundy, complex with layers of oak, moss, and berry, and a spicy bouquet. The complaint against red wine was that it didn’t ship well, but this one had managed quite nicely. Cate closed her eyes with each swallow; it had been a very long time since she had enjoyed something so good.

They talked one bottle dry, and then another. The third disappeared somewhere during supper: a seafood stew, served over rice, and warm flatbread. After came dessert: a caramelized custard.

“I think they call it flan,” Thomas explained over his shoulder as he rummaged through the cabinet anew. “And, if I can find that port…hah!” he exclaimed, holding up a bottle in triumph. “Now the evening can begin.”

The meal finished, they reclined in the elbow chairs, with cups of Arabic coffee, thick and dark, and port. Cate couldn’t decide which she enjoyed more. Coffee was always a favorite, but the port was exquisite. Thomas lounged with his legs extended and ankles crossed on a hassock. Once more she was reminded of Brian and their nights before a fire.

Settling her head against the chair’s back, Cate lifted her glass. “Where did you say you got this?”

“Card game. The poor dumb bugger was so drunk he didn’t know a king from a trey. I could have taken his whole damn ship. I decided I desired the port more.”

Conversation came easy and they talked, the hour candle burning down through its rings, the omnipresent watch bells pealing. At one point, the demands of command called Thomas away. He reluctantly rose and excused himself.

Deep in the chair, with her feet propped up, Cate felt a pang of guilt for being so content in such luxury. It was only a small one, fleeting, barely more. Truth be told, she enjoyed the freedom from Nathan’s watchdoggedness. Thomas was proving to be a fascinating delight, sweeping her away with his exuding charm and infectious laughter. His openness was refreshing and the lake-blue eyes held promise of…

“Another refill?”

Startled, Cate jerked, the port sloshing onto her hand. She looked up to find Thomas at her knee, looking down with a lopsided grin.

She sat up to recompose. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Thomas took her glass, eyeing her as he filled it. “Daydreaming?”

“What would I be daydreaming about?” The room had suddenly gone warm.

He drew up