The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,34

down his neck and shirt came into view. Close behind them came two more men to deposit smaller trunks. Knuckling their foreheads, all took their leave.

“I passed the word for the…er…um…well, I know how women are about their…things...” Blackthorne, or rather Nathan, frowned in the puzzlement as to what could be so valuable.

“Pray tell them, ‘Thank you.’” She looked to her lap to hide a smile. “It’s a lovely thought, but there’s only one small problem: those aren’t mine.”

His smile faltered into a displeased curl. “Blundering, cod-handed dolts! They claimed ’twas all—”

“There wasn’t much to be found.” She looked away, for it was embarrassing to have to admit being so near destitution. She winced at the stab of loss. She blinked to clear her blurring vision as she looked out the windows, to where the Constancy had vanished. She felt Blackthorne watching, but elaborated no further.

“Might I suggest that you find something, unless you desire to go about like that,” he said, rising.

Seeing him abruptly side-step from the imaginary line in the floor reminded her to keep to her side as she followed him to the trunks.

“I have nothing,” she said evenly.

Blackthorne flipped open the lid of the largest, its ransacked contents—silk, satin, lace, ribbons, ruffles and linens—spilling out. She recognized the churned snarl of whites, pinks, blues, greens, and yellows as having been Mrs. Littleton’s.

With a pang of remorse, she ran her fingers along the silver crest that adorned the front of the largest trunk, an oval, full of flourish and detail, it bore a scripted “L.” She was familiar with the exact contents of all three trunks, for she had been the one to pack them. Being the only other woman aboard, she been the one to care for the ill women. She had sponged their fever-wracked bodies, day and night melding into a blur. She had overheard a crewman mumble something about “a couple of days;” she had no alternative but to accept that as fact.

Their deaths had been a blow. In the short time, she had become close to Mrs. Littleton, but most particularly Lucy. There had even been suggestions that, once arrived in Kingston, she might find a position in the Commissioner’s household. Those hopes disappeared over the rail as the bodies were sent to the deep.

“These are women’s things, aren’t they?” Blackthorne asked.

“Yes, but Mrs. Littleton was a good twelve inches shorter than I—and at least double at the waist—and Lucy was a girl of fifteen, barely half my size.”

The smaller trunk had belonged to the younger. A sleeve stuck out, lilac-flowered, with the same silk flowers at the elbow. She touched the flowers, smiling inwardly as she recalled Lucy in that very dress as she strolled the Constancy’s decks.

Blackthorne frowned, clearly unfamiliar with feminine complexities. “Can’t you just fix up something? I thought you said you were fair with a needle.”

She looked down, fingering a pink satin sleeve, heavily ruched with lace. “Certainly, in a couple of days, but I’m not sure how practical any of this is going to be. These are ladies' things: silks and satins, and fine laces.”

“You're a lady.”

“Hardly.” Cate made an unladylike caustic noise. “It's not usually the first word to come to mind when describing me. Regardless, I don't think any of these would be appropriate for a ship of this…nature.”

“You mean a pirate ship?”

She met his dark gaze squarely. “Yes, a pirate ship.”

“No worries, luv.” A flash of ivory split the beard as he grinned. “’Tis many a far stronger man what shrinks at the word. Hell, some days I struggle with it meself.”

The humor faded, suddenly becoming very distant. And then he shook his head, as if to rid himself of a thought.

“Aye, these are very fine things,” he murmured, fingering an azure brocade sleeve.

“All in good time, but in the meantime, I’ll be in need of something.”

Mr. Kirkland’s arrival brought them back to the table. A plate of toast awaited, with a small dollop of jam, a sliced orange, and a battered silver knife. The honey jar had been slid from the teapot next to the plate.

Blackthorne sat, only to rise abruptly and head for the door.

“Is there anything else that I…er, we can get you?” he called over his shoulder.

The offer held the tone of being meant only in jest, and yet it held a strain of sincerity.

“Some hot water,” she said in a surge of unadulterated self-indulgence.

That stopped him in his tracks. “Eh?”

“A basin and some water…to wash with.” Her heart quickened