to take action, could only fan the fires of dissention.
Giving the burn only a perfunctory cleaning—his arm could fester and fall off, for all she cared, the longer and more agonizing the process the better—she fumbled with the jar’s cork. She scooped out the mixture of tallow, wax, and sweet oil, and took great satisfaction at seeing him flinch when she touched the raw flesh, admittedly rougher than might have been required.
Bullock gave a lewd smirk. “A man can’t help but wonder what it would be for those hands to be a-greasin’ his cock.”
Cate lurched backward, ignoring the sound of her skirt giving way as she stumbled to her feet. The jar crashed to the deck. The hands nearest paused, looking interestedly on as she backed away, rigid. She kicked the cork from the shattered crockery and splattered ointment, hitting Bullock in the shin. Smiling, he regarded her with the cold eyes of a shark, his leering chuckle echoing behind her as she stalked away.
Cate's path aft intersected Nathan’s as he came forward. She sought to brush past him, but he seized her by the arm, his countenance dark with concern.
“Did he…?” Nathan eyed her skirt and the section of torn waistband.
“No.” Cate jerked away, continuing to the cabin.
“But I saw—” Nathan said, close on her heels.
“No!” she shot back over her shoulder.
“But you look—”
Cate whirled around, balling her fists. “No!”
She spun away and headed for the cabin. Nathan gave chase, but pulled up short when she ducked through the curtain. The shadow underneath the velvet’s hem revealed that he lingered. He exhaled loudly enough to make his displeasure evident. In her sliver of privacy, she gave way to a mute tantrum, grunting with the effort of pitching the pillow at the bulkhead again and again.
“Are you well?” came Nathan’s voice through the curtain.
“I’m fine,” she said between ragged gasps.
There was a fair pause. “It doesn’t sound like it.”
“I’m fine,” Cate said with far more anger than intended. She took a deep breath, collected herself, and said in careful measure, “I’m…fine.”
She heard Nathan draw breath to say something, and then thought better. Grumbling darkly under his breath, she heard him stalk away. Hodder bellowing, “Swabbers!” blanketed his footsteps.
Once alone, Cate resumed her fit, swearing to herself colorfully enough to make a sailor proud and her mother appalled. Seething, she paced the tiny space. A part of her screamed that she should tell Nathan. An appealing thought, pictures of flogging and keel-hauling coming to mind. Her pride argued it would be too much like running to someone else to solve her problems.
Cate watched Bullock for several days after, unscathed and as brash as ever. With “No secrets on a ship” echoing in her head, she vacillated between hoping Nathan knew of Bullock’s comments and dreading that he did. If Nathan knew, then he might feel compelled to retaliate. That could lead to refueling the mutinous fires, stirring the burning pot called Bullock.
And so, Cate kept her counsel and lived more cautiously, conscious of not allowing herself in compromising situations: never in the company of just one crewman, never going below or to isolated corners of the ship alone. On a ship with over a hundred men, it wasn’t difficult. Living in such close quarters suddenly didn’t seem such a burden after all.
###
Besides care-giving, another responsibility was thrust upon Cate one day.
When the Valor’s stubbed masts had still pricked the line between water and sky, Mr. Cameron, hat in hand, had sidled closer.
He repeatedly cleared his throat. “’Cuse me, mum…sir!” The blunder prompted a more vigorous twisting of his hat.
He cleared his throat again, a tortuous sound. “Compliments, to ye, mum…sir! A word w’ ye?”
“Certainly, Mr. Cameron,” Cate said, mildly curious and a lot wary.
“Well, mum…sir!” Eyes downcast, Cameron's mouth moved in search of words. “I was recallin’, from before, when we wuz marchin’ to Stirling.”
…marchin’ to Stirling… Caught unawares, the memories those few words brought was like a punch in the gut: freezing weather, hundreds of Highlanders, hungry, trudging toward a battle.
She could only manage a wheezing “Yes?”
“Ye can write, sir.” The simple observation was tinged with awe.
Cate blinked at the unexpected turn of subject. “Well, yes, I both read and write.” Aside from landed gentry, few women could. She had been taught only through her mother’s intransigence.
“I knew it!” Cameron beamed, then sobered. “Well, mum…sir, I recollected seein’ ye at the fires, writin’…for yer husband’s men.”
“Yes, I remember,” she said faintly. She wrapped her arms about herself against a sudden