The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,30

the mess after…”

He shuddered dramatically. “Most instances, a man’s forced to cut his own off, but strikes me as damned barbaric. No, a quick snick and Bob’s-your-uncle, the fuddling mump learns his lesson, hopefully. ’Tis not torture they seek,” he said, looking outside once more, “only justice. And those scuts will be a constant reminder to every man what lays eyes on him. Feeling better today, are we?” he asked, swiveling around to her.

It took Cate a moment to follow his abrupt shift, and managed an uneven, “Yes, thank you, Captain.”

All things considered, she felt much better.

“Nathan.” He dropped his battered leather tricorn on the table. “I’d fancied you’d call me Nathan…Cate?” The graveled voice held the question.

She nodded, managing a smile. From amid his glossy beard broke a gold-studded smile that lit the room.

There was an awkward moment. For a man who seemed to have a response to everything the day before, he was markedly ill at ease, searching the rug at his feet as if he might find the words there. The scratch marks, livid on his chest amidst the heavy growth of hair, brought a sense of satisfaction. Hopefully, he would think twice before trying her again. She saw the hand she had bitten was wrapped in a doubtful-looking strip of rag. In the spirit of atonement, and perhaps a bit of endearment, she considered offering to put a bit of salve on it. Never being one to dodge the unpleasant, she took the first step. Anything was better than this insufferable throat-clearing.

“Shall I—?” Cate began.

“A pact,” he declared. His habit of interrupting hadn’t improved.

Cate looked to see if he was jesting. He wasn’t. “I beg pardon?”

“A pact would answer: I stay on this side of the room,” he said with a sweep of his arm in a general direction of where he stood. “And you won’t attack me again. Agreed?”

“Attack! I never—” Her cheek heated, feeling once again the sting of where he had hit her.

“Tell that one to the fishes. A fine state of affairs and thank-yous for showing a little kindness—”

“Kindness,” Cate sputtered. “But you—”

“What?”

“And then, you—”

“What? Any signs of ill-handling are your own bloody fault. Not a hand was laid, until provoked.”

“Provoked!”

“Nasty habit that, repeating everything you hear. Have you suffered this affliction long?” Blackthorne, or rather, Nathan asked, peering with affected interest down the long line of his nose.

Cate eyed him, trying to decide what he was playing at. Madness and flaws of character had been mentioned in the pirate tales. First, there had been the bullying brute, then cajoling and compassionate with his injured crew. And now, here was another manifestation, which smacked of intentional disarming. If so, he was a crafty one, indeed.

She rubbed her brow in frustration. “I surrender.”

“Ah, a sane voice at last. A truce it ’tis.”

“Then by your leave,” she fumed, retreating to the corner she had been sent to the day before.

“Sit. Sit.” He waved her back. “We’ll call…it…here,” he said, toeing an inconspicuous board. Visually following the plank’s seam, it ran from under the table, across the room, to the middle of the double-wide doors.

“Hungry?” he blurted. “Tea?” The query came more as a declaration than offer.

At first she thought she hadn’t heard correctly. His changes of subject were dizzying.

“Yes, tea would be lovely.” An offer of coffee—of which she was in desperate need—would have been met with even greater relish, but she would take anything.

Blackthorne purposefully strode to a narrow companionway leading below. “Mr. Kirkland!”

Nerves already on edge, she jumped at his bellow.

Quick footsteps could be heard below, followed by a querulous, “Aye, sir?”

“We require tea.”

“Beg pardon, sir?” The invisible man’s dismay was palpable.

“Tea, Mr. Kirkland. We require tea, if you please.”

There was a long pause and a befuddled “Aye, sir” and fading footsteps.

Nathan turned back with an elaborate sweep of the hand. “Tea, directly.”

Frowning with a bit more concentration than might have been necessary, he busied with charts and logbook. The dark eyes crept up at one point to linger with open avidity on her bare calf. The look was gone with a quickness that made her think perhaps it had been imagined, a mask of inscrutability now in place. Nonetheless, she drew her legs under the chair and rearranged the quilt more closely.

Cate had noticed blessed little about him earlier. In the light of a new day, he wasn’t nearly as ominous. He was slightly above average height. She had expected a larger, a more formidable figure for someone who had been