The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,39

in the back of his throat. “You were the one to attend them, ergo you, above all, should know. They’ve not been added to the Butcher’s Bill, so one will assume they do well enough.”

Cate flinched at his sarcasm. Just because a man hadn’t been listed as dead didn’t necessarily mean he was in the pink. Seeing her reaction, he relented to explain.

“Chin’s confined to his hammock on pain of being lashed in if he shows a leg. Three other names are on the binnacle list: one pukes every time he rises, another stove his ribs in—no need to risk putting one through a lung, eh?—and the last still can’t raise his arms, so he’s a worthless scug. The balance are to their duties on pain of being accused of malingering.”

Shouting on the forecastle distracted him. As he craned his head, the wind lifted the hair from his neck and she nearly gasped aloud. God knew she was familiar with scars, but this one was particularly grisly. Running just under the bold line of his jaw, it wasn’t the location so much as the nature of it: thick, curving gnarls of white against the tender skin of his throat. It was a wonder what horror could have inflicted such a thing. In morbid curiosity, she waited for his head to turn, to see if it continued to the other side.

It did.

In the absence of a beard, another tattoo was now visible, curving like a collar at the base of his neck. It was an interwoven, chain-like design, strongly suggestive of Highland designs. The woad-colored pattern was muted by his tan. Under the protection of shirt and hair, the blue was brilliant against the pale ivory of his skin.

Cate had stood on the Constancy’s quarterdeck many a time, but never did she experience what she did then. The difference between the two ships had been felt while lying in her cot, but there on the quarterdeck, it was even more pronounced. The Morganse sailed with an ardent zeal, a fine thoroughbred straining to run. Cate’s heart quickened and her breath came short with the same thrill as if she was riding that same horse, too spirited to be controlled, and yet racing too fast to jump off.

Chambers had spoken affectionately of his ship, but never had she seen him at the wheel, a point she made to Nathan.

“Ordinarily ’tis not the captain’s charge, but I can’t bear to be away from her for long,” Nathan said, lovingly stroking the wheel. “We belong together, she and I, I and she. Besides, it does the crew well to see the captain standing his watch, same as the rest.”

“It looks as if you’ve done this for ages.”

“Sailing, you mean? Went to sea at twelve.”

“No, I mean at the helm, with the Morganse.”

He gave her a tight-lipped smile. “All told, only a few years of late; lost her there for a bit, I did.”

“What happened?” Cate asked, bracing a hand on the binnacle against the roll of the swell.

“Mutiny.”

The word was uttered no differently than if it had been “ague” or “storm.”

Her face heated with embarrassment. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—”

“No worries, luv.” There was a reassuring flash of a gold and white smile. “A minor setback there just for a bit, but she’s mine now.” He stroked the wheel again, his fingertips tracing the curve of the worn-to-a-polish wood.

“Ciara Morganse,” she said, careful to pronounce it as closely as possible to the way Pryce had on the Constancy, a far cry from Sara Morgan. “It’s a bit of an odd name.”

“Aye, Ciara Morganse,” Blackthorne corrected. With a lilt reminiscent of the Highlands, it came out ‘kee-h-rah.’ “It’s Celt. It means ‘black blessing from the sea,’ roughly.”

“Was she a gift?”

He looked away, sobering. “Some would call her that.”

Cate took his abrupt change in demeanor as an indication of having reached the limit of what he was willing to discuss. As they talked, she noticed curious looks on the part of the crew. At first, she thought it was the shocking sight of her in pants, but gradually came to realize the gapes were aimed at their newly barbered captain.

“I’m ashamed to confess, this isn’t quite what I had expected,” Cate said looking down to the main deck.

“You were you expecting what: debauchery, rampant drunkenness, chests of gold, piked heads, and disemboweled bodies?”

“Not the bodies.” Such a juvenile concept left her feeling quite foolish, the condition worsened by having to admit to it.

“Not the bodies,”