The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,28

think to have slept so soundly. Wondering what else she might have slept through, she ducked her head under the blanket to delicately sniff and took a meticulous inventory of her body. There was no stickiness or soreness, nor any trace of the aftermath of sex or violation. It was another befuddlement: a visitor in the night had been expected, and yet none had come…or had he?

The smell of a man rose from the sweat-stained mattress and pillow. Musty and sharp, it was mingled with hints of rum, cinnamon, tar, and orange oil. It wasn’t objectionable. If anything, it made her realize how much she missed the smell of a man of a morning. It had been a long time, a very long time.

As she lay there, she heard the scamper of feet. At sea or land, the sound of rats never changed. She reflexively checked her toes, fingers, lips, and nose to assure there had been no nibbling, as she watched the rolling red back—and a sleek, healthy beast it was—lumber along the wall. The surprise came with a brindled face poked out from under the curtain. First impressions were of a fox, but it was considerably smaller, longer of body, and shorter of leg. The creature darted forward and pounced. The rat gave a startled squeal, a feeble kick and was dead. Holding its prey by the neck, the brindled beast regarded Cate with beady, vertically slitted eyes. Seemingly a bit surprised by her presence, it pranced off with its treasure to be devoured in privacy.

The call of nature forced Cate to rise sooner than she would have preferred. She rose stiffly, taking several steps before her legs became reliable. She listened carefully to verify that the salon was still empty before making her quilt-swathed entrance. The privy closet was in the far corner. She was excessively grateful for that tradition of the sea: the captain having his own convenience. Groping her way to the forecastle or asking for a chamber pot was unthinkable. If she were at sea a hundred years, however, she would never become accustomed to the feel of the wind and spray on her bared bottom.

After, she took in her surroundings. The Great Cabin was a man’s room; make no mistake, an eclectic collection from every corner of sea and continent. The Constancy’s walls—bulkheads, at sea—had been pristinely whitewashed. These were walnut, dark and rich with the patina of time, smelling of oil and wax. The mizzenmast marked the forward third of the room, the remaining space dominated by a carved mahogany table centered over a Turkish rug. The sidechairs were equally elaborate, with brass-studded seats, their tooled leather worn to a dull sheen.

Opulence and riches were expected—these were pirates, after all—but only luxuriant pragmatism was found; luxuriant, at least, by any standards in which she had lived of recent. Every object was unique, but at the same time functional, selected for utility rather than to impress: a velvet chair, because one might wish to sit. Before it sat an ottoman, fashioned from some kind of drum-looking something, in case one needed to rest his feet. A water-stained locker sat next to the chair, because one needed a place to set something, such as the thick book there now, a French classic. A candelabrum hung next to it, because one needed light to read.

By the side-lighted, double doors sat a massive Oriental porcelain urn, its inglorious task being to hold a lethality of swords, cutlasses, and sabers. Charts bulged from similar gilt-trimmed urns scattered about. Silver and gold cups sat next to ones of leather or wood; after all, one needed to drink. Battered horn lanterns perched next to silver epergnes; one needed light. The two cannons, their brass glowing in the morning light, were a cold reality against the warmth of human occupancy, and yet were quite fitting.

Perhaps the most intriguing of the room’s features were the books, a rare luxury and one that had been fully indulged. Cases, with moveable arms that locked or unlocked with a single flip, sat everywhere. Gilded and richly bound, under closer scrutiny, many of the volumes proved to be collections of classics, and in several languages.

Amid the live sounds of a ship under sail, she hitched the quilt higher about her shoulders and perched on the arm of a chair to stare out the windows at the rich hues of sky and wave. According to Chambers and the Constancies, she had committed a mortal mistake: she