The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,38

her bare calves, the visible division of her legs and her rear for all to see.

This is going to be more difficult that I thought.

She was instantly struck by a difference in atmosphere. Captain Chambers’ deck had been a quiet deck, “Silence fore and aft!” a common cry. The Constancy hadn’t been a tyrannical vessel, although more than once she had seen a man started with the same bludgeon Mastiff had brandished at her. Compared to Constancy’s guarded reserve, this was cheerier, a chatty ship. For such a barbarous rabble, to find slovenly disorder on the verge of mayhem would have been no surprise. Instead, the decks were scrubbed to whiteness, the smell of fresh paint wafting in the air. Brass, or any other surface which could be induced to shine, gleamed. The sheets hung on their pins or kevels in close-ordered ranks.

Alert for any sight or sound of Scarface, who had attacked her yesterday, she glanced about, hoping to see Nathan. From overhead came Nathan’s voice, ragged and torn, like someone just awakened from a deep sleep. Inching further took her into the blaze and warmth of the sun. She shaded her eyes and saw him on the quarterdeck. In essence the roof of the Great Cabin, the afterdeck was bracketed by a pair of elegantly curved stairs with scrolled rails and balustrades. With as much dignity as could be gathered, all the while expecting to be sent back like a recalcitrant pup, she mounted the steps.

At the top, her step slowed. A twitch of Nathan’s brow and quirk of his mustache acknowledged her presence, but he left her to stand for some moments, his version of a reprimand. The space was populated with several more crewmen, going about their duties. At her arrival, most either left or moved further aft, leaving she and Nathan alone, or as much so as could be managed on a ship.

“Do…you…mind…?” she asked.

One eye narrowed in suspicion as she sidled closer. “Do…you…plan…to…take the ship?” he asked, mimicking her halting query.

“Hardly. I was unsure if I was to be allowed…out.”

“If you weren’t, you would have known,” Blackthorne said with a severe look. “Shackles are blessedly difficult to overlook.”

Something had been bothering her about him from the moment she had topped the steps. It finally struck her.

“You shaved!”

The abundant beard was gone, a swatch of newly exposed and shockingly pale jaw in its place. The only remnants were a spade-shaped beard over a strong chin and a mustache, its silver bells still in place. With a long sweep of bold jaw and high cheekbones, under all that hair had lurked a very comely face.

“Did I?” He feigned astonishment as he passed a hand along his now-smooth jaw. “Ah, yes, I recall now: Navy Sunday.”

“It isn’t Sunday, is it?” If so, being captured had disoriented her worse than previously suspected.

He scowled. “Of course not; Navy Sunday is on Wednesday.”

“So, today’s Wednesday?”

“No, goose. ’Tis Tuesday.”

Cate pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose.

“…a day of washing hammocks, bathing and laundry and such,” he was saying. “A high holy day for you, to be sure,” he added with a dramatic roll of the eyes. “Navy Sunday; you’ll love it.”

“But you said today is Tuesday.”

“Is it?” Touching a finger to his chin, he struck a thoughtful pose. “Oh, aye. So it ’tis. Just setting an example: cleanliness is next to holiness—”

“Godliness.”

“Eh? Oh, whatever.” Blackthorne ended with a broad sweep of his hand, and then added with a suffering air. “Leadership is an ever-pressing burden.”

Between his grimed shirt, tattered collar and cuffs, worn pants missing buttons at the knees, and tar-stained fingers, she had a strong sense his personal grooming was far from burdensome.

He again took his eyes from the horizon to regard her shrewdly. “With all due respect, you make a better woman than you do a lad.”

“Thank you…I think.”

Still staring at his transformation, it was easier to see that he was jesting. His smile was broad, brilliant, and quite charming.

“’Twould appear a belt might be in order,” he said, eyeing her judiciously.

Cate gave the sagging waistband a self-conscious tug. “I hesitated to ask for one. I was afraid you might use it on me first.”

A corner of his mouth twitched, but he was otherwise unresponsive.

“I thought I might ask leave to see to the injured?” she asked hesitantly.

“And what, pray tell, do you seek to gain from that?” His query was more in the way of wonderment than suspicion.

“To see how they do.”

He made a derisive noise