The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,31

accredited with such deeds as he. Shot 13 times? Beyond an aristocratic nose, the high cheekbones and forehead, not much more could be discerned, for his features were lost in the abundant beard.

There was no getting past the hair: a voluminous, mop-like snarl that reached well below his shoulders. Bound by the omnipresent headscarf, which showed signs of once having been blue, the raven-colored mass was a tangle of braids. Some were made up of only a few strands, while others were nearly the thickness of a finger, many of those haphazardly worked together into larger braids. All were secured by random bits of colorful bits of yarn or thread, twine, or strips of cloth. A delicate metallic jingle accompanied his every move. At one point, he turned the back of his head to her and the light caught near a score of what she first thought to be silver beads. She then realized they were actually tiny bells, barely the size of the tip of her pinky.

…one for every virgin…

The mind reeled.

Aside from his hair, a few rings on his fingers and a tattered sash at his waist, there was nothing peacockish about him. Compared to the ornate swords in the urn, the one at his side was a workman’s model. His baldric, its hand-sized buckle and pistol, were equally plain.

He felt her staring, and so she diverted her attention to anything: the great guns poised at the stern windows. Their muzzles jutting under the gallery sill, they lurked like two pugnacious brass watchdogs. Blackthorne followed her line of attention and smiled.

“A ship’s only as good as her stern chasers,” he said with a loving gaze.

Said affection was borne out by the names roughly inscribed in the wooden carriages: Widower and Merdering Mary.

“How many do you have?” she asked.

He flopped in his chair and propped his feet on the table, but then yanked them down.

“Thirty-six.” The announcement came with no small amount of pride. It was considerably less than the count given on the Constancy; one more bit of gross misinformation.

“And we can serve up a minute-fifty barrage for hours, thanks to Pryce and Master Gunner MacQuarrie. They do know how to drill a crew,” Nathan said, eyes rounding in admiration.

Cate cringed at the mention of the First Mate’s name. The walnut-colored eyes didn’t miss a thing, the dark dash of brows narrowing.

“I can’t say I entirely trust the man. He sought to have my clothes cut off,” she said, suppressing a shudder.

Nathan chuckled. “Can’t say as I blame him. I’d wager not a man aboard hasn’t fancied that.”

The man she assumed to be the earlier-beckoned Kirkland came up the steps from below, bearing a tray. The apparent cook was a round man with an even rounder face. Like many others, he wore a kerchief around his head, this one being so small it clung precariously to his bald, sun-scaled crown.

“Would the lady care for a bit o’ toast?” Mr. Kirkland asked, hovering anxiously.

“Bread?” The closest to bread she had seen on the Constancy had been ship’s biscuit, appropriately called hardtack, since only lengthy soaking rendered it edible.

Blackthorne chuckled at her awe. “Aye, softtack. Ovens were installed a bit ago. Not large ones, mind, but enough to allow for a bit of variety. Pirates are a heartless and scurrilous lot, but our bellies still appreciate a fair meal.”

The last time she had eaten was breakfast past, under Grogan’s watchful eye, and meager it had been. Vomiting and the terrors of the day before had left her quite sharp set, and her stomach growled loudly at the suggestion of such a feast. Blackthorne was quick to clear his throat loudly enough to cover the sound.

“No worries, luv,” Blackthorne grinned. “Let it never be said someone went hungry under me watch.”

“That would be lovely, Mr. Kirkland,” she said at last.

“And perhaps a bit of fruit?” the cook suggested.

She nodded and he scurried away, obviously pleased by his insightfulness.

Blackthorne rose and made the host. The ritual of serving—the murmured inquires of “Milk?” “Sugar?” and “Honey?” and the clatter of porcelain and tinkling of the spoon—eased the tension. As he bent, she noticed there were bells in his mustache, as well. Similar to those in his hair, they hung asymmetrically: one at the corner of his mouth, the other high over the opposite lip.

…one for every virgin…

Then what do those two mean?

Tar-stained, but long-fingered and finely boned, his hands moved with surprising gracefulness. The porcelain’s delicacy was a sharp contrast to the lacework