at the prospect. A trans-Atlantic voyage demanded severe conservation of fresh water, and hence no allowance for a luxury such as washing. She had no soap, but the thought of hot water alone sent a thrill through her. His puzzled look gave her a sinking sensation that she might have presumed too much.
He saw as much and his gaze softened. “Treasure is in the eye of the beholder, is it not?”
Mirth lit his eyes as he bent an elaborate bow, touching his fingers to his heart, and then lips. “Your wish is but me command, m’lady.”
###
Hovering fretfully at the top of the companionway, Mr. Kirkland indulged Cate in four more pieces of toast, another orange, and enough tea—alas, not coffee—to float the ship. Now anchored by food, she felt considerably steadier. Kirkland then brought a steaming ewer, a porcelain basin ringed with images of frolicking cherubs, and a sponge.
“Picked and cleaned it, myself,” he beamed.
From a chest of drawers, he produced a length of cloth intended as a towel. Face burning with embarrassment, he then scampered away.
She moved her toilet to the sleeping area. The curtain posed a flimsy barricade, but it provided the impression of privacy. Modesty demanded she keep the quilt about her—prying eyes and all—but pragmatism pointed out the impossibility. She poured a measure of water into the chipped basin, and shed both quilt and shift.
It was her first opportunity to inspect the damage from Chin’s knife. Lying just above the full of her breast, the length-of-a-finger cut was now lightly crusted with dried blood. The nicks on her ribs and midriff were bright with newness in comparison to the white lacework of old scars. Those, which ran from the curve of her ribs to the flat of her belly, had been long forgotten. It had taken the threat of another blade to call them back to mind. In consideration of all the damage from so long ago, it was a puzzle how Chin’s knife could have prompted her to react as if she had been nearly eviscerated.
Troubling, but she shook the thought away.
Later, all very much for later.
A basin and a sponge wasn’t a real bath, but it was luxurious compared to the wooden bucket of seawater and the hem of her shift, the sum total of her ablutions for the last two months. The water was dank but fresh, not salt. It was glorious. In spite of its initial warmth, it cooled her skin and sent goose flesh creeping up her arms.
She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to ponder Captain Nathanael Blackthorne.
It hadn’t gone unnoticed that he had effectively eluded answering her questions regarding his intentions. In fact, he seemed to ricochet between not wanting to say and not knowing. Neither thought was comforting. It still remained to be seen if he would rise to the bait and turn her in for the reward. Initial impressions had been his interest was only mildly piqued, but if she had learned anything about the good Captain, it was that he was a master at keeping his council.
As Blackthorne sat sipping tea, he had appeared benign enough, but even a lion could look peaceful when sleeping. She had eyed him at the table, wishing she had paid more careful attention to what the Constancies had told of him. So much had been said, it was nigh impossible to separate the horrors and misdeeds credited to Blackthorne from the other names bandied about. She fancied herself a good judge of character, but Blackthorne was a difficult to fathom, partly because his features were so buried and partly because he was rarely still. He shifted roles like an actor. Was the real Blackthorne the bully she had met in the cabin or the compassionate one met kneeling next to the wounded Chin? Or was it the disarming charmer who had just taken his leave, the inscrutable temporarily tilted aside? Or was it all an act, with the single intention of getting her to drop her defenses?
No, only the foolhardy would be sucked into believing any of the façades. The malignancy, which most assuredly lurked behind the curtain, rendered him doubly treacherous. Besides, even if the Captain indeed proved to be benevolent, there were still a hundred and twenty-some pirates aboard who were not.
As she dried off with the scrap of towel, she glanced about the dim room, curious for an insight as to Blackthorne, the man. It was, however, more austere than the salon. Aside from the quilt,