The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,37

the offensiveness under his nose. He obligingly bent, audibly sniffed, and straightened. “Not bad. I’ve certainly smelled worse.”

It was all too clear that it could have smelled like a dead horse and he would have said the same.

“Not on me.” Tension was making her more sensitive and truculent than what was customary.

“Have you any concept what it took to find those for you?” Blackthorne demanded, propping his hands on his hips.

“No,” Cate said, somewhat chastened. “But I'm not wearing anything that smells like…that.”

“I don't give a bloody damn if you lie naked in the bunk for the next fortnight.”

With a disgusted growl and an angry swipe, he turned and made for the doors, veering at the last to the rail at galley companionway.

“Mr. Kirkland! The lady desires to wash.”

Blackthorne made a great show of walking the boundary line. Just short of the door, however, he trounced his foot down on her side, making a defiant gesture behind him. He skidded to a halt before a mass of gape-mouthed crewmen gathered at the door.

“What are you looking at, you bunch o’ knot-headed laggards?” he cried, scattering them like chickens from the garden gate.

###

Cate’s face heated with embarrassment as she stood next to the bunk and ran her hands over her rear and down her thighs. There was no looking glass. Only self-consciousness was her guide. It was awkward to be wearing pants. She had worn them as a child and into her later years of youth, but rarely since. Inordinately large, the shirt and breeches barely touched her body. Even with the shirt’s voluminous tails tucked in and the ties at the back drawn tight, the waistband still hung precariously at her hips. A belt might have answered, but there was none.

With an experimental shift of her shoulders, she tested the bindings around her chest. She smiled privately at Blackthorne’s fretfulness, but was grateful for his thoughtfulness. Modesty had never been her burden. She didn’t consider herself large-breasted, but in view of the lawn’s sheerness, precautions were necessary. She checked the binding’s knot a second time. Short of walking about with her arms crossed, she was still unsure as what to do about the neck opening. With one of the ties missing, it gaped nearly to her navel. The binding prevented exposure, but the draft was disconcerting.

What I wouldn’t give for some stays just now.

Mrs. Littleton’s and young Lucy’s were in the trunks, but either would have required extensive alterations before they could have been serviceable.

The shirt was for the most part dry and clean, or rather cleaner, there being a limit as to how much could be attained with cold seawater. The breeches were still damp and quite crumpled; the velvet unappreciative of being washed in a bucket. The state of undry, however, wasn’t unpleasant. She was not yet accustomed to the tropical heat and the breeze through the damp cloth was quite refreshing.

She tentatively pushed aside the curtain and went out into the salon. Its empty state was a reprieve to having to face anyone. In spite of the stern’s expanse of open windows and the breeze through the cabin’s double doors, she was in desperate need of fresh air. With no wall or encumbrance other than a forbidding seam in the planks, she still felt trapped. Careful to stay on her side of that demarcation, she paced and wondered if she was to be allowed out of the cabin. No mention had been made one way or the other. No guards were in sight, although she could feel eyes on her.

The boundary line imposed by Blackthorne ended perpendicular to the coaming, a raised barrier at the bottom of the door to prevent water from pouring in. Whether the coaming was part of her limit was unclear and Blackthorne…er, Nathan was nowhere to be seen. His voice could be heard now and again, broken by wind and ship.

She paced in circles, each pass a bit closer to the door. Nothing was said. No one seemed to notice. Steeling her nerve, she stepped over the coaming and waited in the shadow of the afterdeck’s overhang.

Nothing.

She inched further. A few of the hands nodded as they passed, casual and noncommittal. A few inches further brought notice in the way of raised eyebrows and men elbowing each other to exchange significant looks. Pirates they might be, but they were still sufficient creatures of tradition to stare at the scandalous sight of a woman in pants. It made her even more aware of