The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,325

yourself,” Cate said to the accusing look she was given.

Head canted somewhat, Beatrice appeared as apologetic as a bird might. Cate tentatively reached to stroke the hyacinth-colored chest. To her surprise, Beatrice allowed it.

Nathan’s footsteps passed overhead. Through the open skylight came the sound of his good-natured railing with the afterguard.

Insufferable man!

“Hang the bastard,” Beatrice croaked with her customary clarity.

Cate smiled faintly. “Not quite what I was thinking, but a good flogging might answer.”

Shortly after, Nathan burst into the cabin. Amiably shouting back over his shoulder to someone outside, he came only so far as the desk near the doors. There he rummaged through several drawers, grunting in satisfaction at finding what he sought. With a curt nod in Cate’s general direction, he left.

“Although a hanging might answer to put one of us out of our misery,” Cate said in consideration as his voice faded down the deck.

“Plague and perish the maggot,” said Beatrice.

“Have a care. You’re beginning to sound like him.”

Cate’s humiliation bloomed in the wake of Nathan’s most recent performance, the horror of her predicament multiplying to near-paralyzing proportions. She was stuck: no escape, no options, and no reprieve in sight, a captive audience to Nathan’s gloating, and gloat he certainly would. It brought her to seriously question her judgment and the long list of assumptions she had made—and yes, they were clearly assumptions, now in the glare of day.

“Where were you last night when I needed you?” she said accusingly to the sun.

There was no surprise. This was Nathan; no more need be said. Home had just turned into a floating hell.

Cate looked with longing out the windows at the ship’s wake, its V-shape stretching into infinity, and wondered where Thomas might be.

Not much later, Nathan reappeared, stern and mute. Cate was on the sill, now feeding Beatrice bits of orange from breakfast. Stopping at the table, Nathan kept his attention fixed on the cup as he filled, and then took a drink. Setting it down, his gaze drifted her way and darted back. Shortly, his eyes crept back, and for the next few minutes, she and Nathan played a silent game of eye tag: looking and dodging away, the silence punctuated by a random cough or clearing of the throat.

He can’t even bring himself to look at me. Is this the what-have-I-done phase?

There was the chance that he despised her now. As always, the man was lauded for his prowess, while the woman was scorned for failing to be virtuous. A more rational voice pointed out that the picture of Nathan she pieced together in those few glimpses was other than expected. He lacked the much-dreaded vaunt, the braggadocio of the conqueror. If anything, Nathan was quite the opposite: reserved. She considered rearranging her countenance into something more benign, but dismissed it directly. Her edges were beginning to fray. He was a considerably better actor than she, and her resolve was withering quickly.

From the corner of her eye, Cate saw Nathan square his shoulders and assume an overt casualness as he came toward her. She fixed her attention on the sill, wondering if she should flutter her lashes or throw the plate. His boots scuffed to a stop and two luminous eyes came around into her view.

“Silence can be a deafening thing, don’t you think?” Nathan smiled, thin-lipped and brief. “Somebody should say something, or we’ll be obliged to start passing notes.”

He shifted and cleared his throat several times. Beatrice’s “Thrice-damned princock,” startled him, apparently not having noticed her prior.

“Must she be here?” he asked.

“I’d say she has a reasonable grasp of the situation,” Cate said, jerking her hand back to avoid a truculent clap of a beak.

Nathan narrowed an eye, willing the creature to leave. Parrots could be quite stubborn. True to her heritage, Beatrice cocked her head in acute birdish angles to peer at him.

Opting to ignore Beatrice, Nathan tucked his hands into his belts, his arms working triumphantly at his sides. “Open and honest, that’s me motto.”

Cate nearly choked. Caught so off-guard, she lost every thought—that, quite possibly, his purpose.

Something was on Nathan's mind, however, obvious in the furrowing of his brow and severe erosion of his customary amiability. His mouth worked under his mustache, struggling with some inner debate. He frowned and shook his head as he dismissed one unsatisfactory thought after another. He prepared to speak, then grimaced, changing his mind. After several more false starts, he clenched a fist and closed his eyes, looking much like a man commending himself