it truly necessary to make him move?
Biting back a groan, he stood. “You do it,” he growled.
“What’s going on?” he asked as soon as the lamp’s wick caught.
“This.” Mrs. Hawker turned flinty eyes on Jean Vicard. “Tell ’im.”
The boy glanced at the bosun’s wife, then at the floor.
Giving a snort of impatience, Mrs. Hawker reached out and grabbed hold of Vicard's shirt. Treynor heard the fabric tear right before he saw a pair of tightly bound breasts, their soft white flesh swelling above bands that looked tight enough to asphyxiate.
His jaw dropped. The woman—for it was definitely a woman, though she was young, perhaps eighteen—gasped and tried to shield herself from his view.
“Bloody hell!” He stared, swallowed, then glanced back to Mrs. Hawker for some sort of explanation.
The bosun’s wife nodded smugly. “Name’s Jeannette. She told me just as the mate finished with ye. Couldn’t stomach the violence of it. Never seen the likes, I expect.”
The young woman hung her head in shame.
“I would ’ave brought ’er right away, but she insisted on cleanin’ up first. An’ the way she smelled, I had ter agree. Then I began to wonder if it wouldn’t be better ter wait until dark. I mean, ye brought ’er aboard an’ all. I’d ’ate ter see what Cunnington would try to make of it....”
Refusing to gawk any longer, even though he was surely tempted to do so, Treynor clamped his teeth together. Jean Vicard was feminine in the extreme. He’d noticed before, but he’d never suspected...damn! The truth now crystallized with amazing rapidity. How could he have been so easily duped?
He knocked her hat to the floor with one hand and grabbed her with the other, dragging her closer to the light. Jagged locks of thick black hair stuck out in an unruly mess above a fine-boned, delicately sculpted face with arched eyebrows, a small nose, and a rather sharp chin. A blind man could have seen what he’d missed. Not only was this a woman, she was a beautiful one.
“Hell!” His movements had caused the pain of his stripes to crescendo like some great symphony. He never should have brought Jean Vicard aboard. Had he paid more attention, had the others not been standing within earshot, had Dade not disappeared...
“Why?” he demanded.
“She won’t say—” Mrs. Hawker started, but Treynor put up a hand to silence her. He needed answers, but the bosun’s wife was not the one who could best provide them.
“You can go back and get some sleep, Mrs. Hawker. I will handle this from here. She will tell me what I want to know if I have to beat it out of her.”
“But you’re in no condition—”
“Which is fortunate for her.”
The bosun's wife nodded. “Yes, sir. I am sorry ter disturb ye. I didn’t know what else to do—”
Treynor softened his voice. “You did the right thing. Thank you. And please, don’t tell anyone about this until I have made a decision.”
“Aye, sir. Ye’ve been right good ter me and Mr. Hawker. I’ll leave the matter up to ye an’ not speak a word of it to anyone. Not a word.”
“Very well.” Treynor held himself rigid until after she left. Then he moved to the only chair in his crowded cabin and carefully sat down. The change in position did little to relieve his misery.
“So. Do you volunteer the information, or must I drag it out of you?” he asked. “I should think, after everything you have put me through today, that you would cooperate to that extent.”
He studied the abject girl before him. There was something vaguely familiar about her. Had he met Jeannette before? What could have motivated her to dress like a boy?
Suddenly, her petite size, and the fact that she was wearing trousers, connected with a memory—a very vivid and recent memory.
He sprang to his feet. “Dear God! You’re the woman! The one in my bed!”
She backed up until she bumped against the far wall. “No. I do not know what you are talking about.” A
Biting back a groan, he stood. “You do it,” he growled.
“What’s going on?” he asked as soon as the lamp’s wick caught.
“This.” Mrs. Hawker turned flinty eyes on Jean Vicard. “Tell ’im.”
The boy glanced at the bosun’s wife, then at the floor.
Giving a snort of impatience, Mrs. Hawker reached out and grabbed hold of Vicard's shirt. Treynor heard the fabric tear right before he saw a pair of tightly bound breasts, their soft white flesh swelling above bands that looked tight enough to asphyxiate.
His jaw dropped. The woman—for it was definitely a woman, though she was young, perhaps eighteen—gasped and tried to shield herself from his view.
“Bloody hell!” He stared, swallowed, then glanced back to Mrs. Hawker for some sort of explanation.
The bosun’s wife nodded smugly. “Name’s Jeannette. She told me just as the mate finished with ye. Couldn’t stomach the violence of it. Never seen the likes, I expect.”
The young woman hung her head in shame.
“I would ’ave brought ’er right away, but she insisted on cleanin’ up first. An’ the way she smelled, I had ter agree. Then I began to wonder if it wouldn’t be better ter wait until dark. I mean, ye brought ’er aboard an’ all. I’d ’ate ter see what Cunnington would try to make of it....”
Refusing to gawk any longer, even though he was surely tempted to do so, Treynor clamped his teeth together. Jean Vicard was feminine in the extreme. He’d noticed before, but he’d never suspected...damn! The truth now crystallized with amazing rapidity. How could he have been so easily duped?
He knocked her hat to the floor with one hand and grabbed her with the other, dragging her closer to the light. Jagged locks of thick black hair stuck out in an unruly mess above a fine-boned, delicately sculpted face with arched eyebrows, a small nose, and a rather sharp chin. A blind man could have seen what he’d missed. Not only was this a woman, she was a beautiful one.
“Hell!” His movements had caused the pain of his stripes to crescendo like some great symphony. He never should have brought Jean Vicard aboard. Had he paid more attention, had the others not been standing within earshot, had Dade not disappeared...
“Why?” he demanded.
“She won’t say—” Mrs. Hawker started, but Treynor put up a hand to silence her. He needed answers, but the bosun’s wife was not the one who could best provide them.
“You can go back and get some sleep, Mrs. Hawker. I will handle this from here. She will tell me what I want to know if I have to beat it out of her.”
“But you’re in no condition—”
“Which is fortunate for her.”
The bosun's wife nodded. “Yes, sir. I am sorry ter disturb ye. I didn’t know what else to do—”
Treynor softened his voice. “You did the right thing. Thank you. And please, don’t tell anyone about this until I have made a decision.”
“Aye, sir. Ye’ve been right good ter me and Mr. Hawker. I’ll leave the matter up to ye an’ not speak a word of it to anyone. Not a word.”
“Very well.” Treynor held himself rigid until after she left. Then he moved to the only chair in his crowded cabin and carefully sat down. The change in position did little to relieve his misery.
“So. Do you volunteer the information, or must I drag it out of you?” he asked. “I should think, after everything you have put me through today, that you would cooperate to that extent.”
He studied the abject girl before him. There was something vaguely familiar about her. Had he met Jeannette before? What could have motivated her to dress like a boy?
Suddenly, her petite size, and the fact that she was wearing trousers, connected with a memory—a very vivid and recent memory.
He sprang to his feet. “Dear God! You’re the woman! The one in my bed!”
She backed up until she bumped against the far wall. “No. I do not know what you are talking about.” A
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