The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,360

proprietor filled score upon score of ivory and bone bobbins with thread, Thomas poked through the ribbons, until he found the exact shade of turquoise. Claiming it matched the color of her eyes, he tied it about her head, a pert bow at her crown.

Thomas was occasionally met by acquaintances, proof that he wasn’t a stranger to these waters. Sailing might span the Seven Seas, but the sailor’s world was a small one. The greetings were mutually hearty, but the pursuant conversation was carried on with a reserved eye toward Cate, for never was an introduction made. For Cate’s part, it couldn’t be taken as a social snub. Thomas was aware of the warrants for her arrest. Presenting her under a false name threatened entanglements. Leaving her to stand unaddressed was the safer route.

During one such stop, Cate lifted the hair from her neck and dabbed the sweat at her temples. She thought with great longing of the sea breeze, now unable to squeeze between the stands and buildings. Fish and vegetables lying in the tropical sun, tobacco smoke, tightly packed bodies, and an underfoot slurry of dung, urine, and refuse rendered the air nearly unbreatheable. Combined with the heat, she grew light-headed. The market voices went dull in her ears and the ground tipped. Thomas caught her as she swayed and sat on a bale of dried hides. He hailed a black man with a sack of coconuts slung around his shoulders and a machete in hand. The end of the great green nut was whacked off, and Thomas held it while Cate sipped.

Thomas frowned as he dabbed the milk from her chin. “I need to get you out of here. Hungry?”

“Starved.” Her stomach cleaved onto the coconut milk, but demanded something more solid. Breakfast had been a very long time ago.

Thomas rose and put out his hand. “Your wish is but my command, m’lady. To The Crown, it is.”

A rain shower, so sudden it seemed to be falling from the sun, made the decision superfluous. Under the protection of her parasol, they trotted down the street toward the docks in the mist-like rain, so thick it was as if the air had just turned to water. Cate smiled as they ducked into a doorway with a sign The Crown over it, with an appropriate yellow image painted on it. The Crown had to be the most popular name in the Empire. In her limited realm of East London, there had been six such-named places.

This Crown wasn’t the seedy hole one would expect at a waterfront. It was a typical tavern, however, a long room, filled with rows of tables and benches, and a serving counter at the far end. The floor was rush-covered, the low-beamed ceiling blackened from years of wood, candle and tobacco smoke.

“Why aren’t we eating at Mrs. Crisp’s?” Cate asked as Thomas guided her to a table along the wall.

Thomas smiled tolerantly. “Mrs. Crisp is a slave to the application of mop and broom, almost as much as you,” he added wryly. “But she has no sense of duty to pot, nor spoon, nor will she spend the money to engage someone who does. You might as well go to the cooper’s or the ropewalk, for the fare would be barely different. The Crown, on the other hand,” he went on with an admiring eye. “Has a clientele whose main concern is the liquid in their tankard, in spite of a kitchen that produces some of the best sea pie in the New World.”

No sooner had Cate sat than she shifted uncomfortably, considering. “I need to go to the privy,” she said to Thomas’ questioning eye. She started to rise only to see him do so, as well. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I can do this much on my own.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, hovering between standing and sitting.

She gave his hand splayed on the table an assuring pat. “I’ve been doing this for some years now. I can manage.”

Thomas reluctantly lowered himself to the bench. She could feel his eyes on her back, however, as she wove her way through the tables and crowd. A well-worn path in the floor planks led to a door outside. The rear yard was enclosed by a fence. It was tall and solid enough to block any movement of air, which could have served well, for the space smelled like old vomit and one vast overused chamber pot. The sun-battered boards bore the yellowish-brown stain of years of