hands. “Not one o’ the prizes we took had any nuts at all, not the smallest walnut, or even an almond. It’s the shaved nuts, see, that makes them rools what they are. I tried, but all I got was a tasteless mess, no rool you’d want to eat.”
The ribbons on her flounces quivered, but all she said was, “Walnuts, is it? Then we shall have to get some.”
And she rustled away. Mutt sighed in relief. Uslar was too frightened to make even that much noise; he watched the Cook’s strong right arm stiffen at his side, his left hand flipping backside-up in Coco’s direction, the tendons and muscles so taut his fingers trembled. But the next heartbeat the cook was back at his chopping, and so Uslar resumed his steady mixing, around and around and around.
Walic sat in his comfortable chair on deck, considering his next move. His mates each wanted something different, which he ordinarily would have ignored except that he liked each of their plans. Which first? Which first?
All three were sweating, the captain’s good mood from the night before rapidly evaporating. When Coco bustled up onto the captain’s deck, hips swinging, harsh sunlight glaring off the brilliant yellow of her silks, a jet of irritation scorched his temper.
“There are no cinnamon rolls because Cook is out of nuts,” she stated with dramatic petulance, ignoring the mates, who backed out of her way.
Walic massaged his jaw. She did not look the least bit appetizing in the strong light. Sweat marred the bodice of her gown, her skirts swept over half the captain’s deck as if claiming it for her own, and the brilliants in the embroidery threw out pinpoints of reflection strong enough to bring tears to the eyes. When he regarded her under the shade of his hand, she looked no better: her face and the neckline of her low gown had gone blotchy in the heat and her fat jiggled when she tapped her foot.
The irritation flared into anger. But then she tilted her head, smiled wistfully, and said with a girlish pout, “Coco is so, so sorry, sweeting. It’s so horridly hot and Coco was so, so disappointed.”
He let out his breath, looking at the small hands clasped meekly under her rounded breasts so cozily squashed into the gown. He thought about unlacing the front of that gown, and what she’d do then, to make the fire run like it had last night, after her imperious demands on her pet.
Best of all, she couldn’t see how Prettyboy hated her. Walic chuckled. Coco thought everyone was in love with her. Well, let her think it—it made for more fun in the cabin and it also meant no one was likely to conspire with her. If her new toy ever showed the least sign of real desire for her, it would be his death warrant. There would be no conspiracies aboard his ship.
“Can’t have you going without, can we?” He chuckled again when he thought about what he’d do to Prettyboy in front of her if he ever sniffed any hint of mutiny.
“No, love,” Coco said, running her fingernails along his jawbone. “No, and you won’t go without either. You wait and see what fun Coco and her pretty-pretty cook for youoo-oo, ” she crooned, and then left the deck with a last twitch of her hips and a coy over-the-shoulder glance.
No, she couldn’t go without walnuts, not Coco, who managed to be amusing even when acting stupid. He considered his mental map of the islands to the north. His first mate wanted them to cruise in Widowmaker ’s old territory.
The second mate shook his head, muttering: “I can’t get it out of my head that Ramis o’ the Knife is also here-abouts. I say we go south, because the big guild convoys aren’t due round Chwahirsland for at least a month—”
“If, by some chance, they avoid Boruin,” the first mate pointed out sarcastically.
“They been sending fleets of warships,” the second mate retorted.
They had their exchanges choreographed by now; they argued so the captain would not sniff an alliance, which he’d see as conspiracy.
The ribbons on her flounces quivered, but all she said was, “Walnuts, is it? Then we shall have to get some.”
And she rustled away. Mutt sighed in relief. Uslar was too frightened to make even that much noise; he watched the Cook’s strong right arm stiffen at his side, his left hand flipping backside-up in Coco’s direction, the tendons and muscles so taut his fingers trembled. But the next heartbeat the cook was back at his chopping, and so Uslar resumed his steady mixing, around and around and around.
Walic sat in his comfortable chair on deck, considering his next move. His mates each wanted something different, which he ordinarily would have ignored except that he liked each of their plans. Which first? Which first?
All three were sweating, the captain’s good mood from the night before rapidly evaporating. When Coco bustled up onto the captain’s deck, hips swinging, harsh sunlight glaring off the brilliant yellow of her silks, a jet of irritation scorched his temper.
“There are no cinnamon rolls because Cook is out of nuts,” she stated with dramatic petulance, ignoring the mates, who backed out of her way.
Walic massaged his jaw. She did not look the least bit appetizing in the strong light. Sweat marred the bodice of her gown, her skirts swept over half the captain’s deck as if claiming it for her own, and the brilliants in the embroidery threw out pinpoints of reflection strong enough to bring tears to the eyes. When he regarded her under the shade of his hand, she looked no better: her face and the neckline of her low gown had gone blotchy in the heat and her fat jiggled when she tapped her foot.
The irritation flared into anger. But then she tilted her head, smiled wistfully, and said with a girlish pout, “Coco is so, so sorry, sweeting. It’s so horridly hot and Coco was so, so disappointed.”
He let out his breath, looking at the small hands clasped meekly under her rounded breasts so cozily squashed into the gown. He thought about unlacing the front of that gown, and what she’d do then, to make the fire run like it had last night, after her imperious demands on her pet.
Best of all, she couldn’t see how Prettyboy hated her. Walic chuckled. Coco thought everyone was in love with her. Well, let her think it—it made for more fun in the cabin and it also meant no one was likely to conspire with her. If her new toy ever showed the least sign of real desire for her, it would be his death warrant. There would be no conspiracies aboard his ship.
“Can’t have you going without, can we?” He chuckled again when he thought about what he’d do to Prettyboy in front of her if he ever sniffed any hint of mutiny.
“No, love,” Coco said, running her fingernails along his jawbone. “No, and you won’t go without either. You wait and see what fun Coco and her pretty-pretty cook for youoo-oo, ” she crooned, and then left the deck with a last twitch of her hips and a coy over-the-shoulder glance.
No, she couldn’t go without walnuts, not Coco, who managed to be amusing even when acting stupid. He considered his mental map of the islands to the north. His first mate wanted them to cruise in Widowmaker ’s old territory.
The second mate shook his head, muttering: “I can’t get it out of my head that Ramis o’ the Knife is also here-abouts. I say we go south, because the big guild convoys aren’t due round Chwahirsland for at least a month—”
“If, by some chance, they avoid Boruin,” the first mate pointed out sarcastically.
“They been sending fleets of warships,” the second mate retorted.
They had their exchanges choreographed by now; they argued so the captain would not sniff an alliance, which he’d see as conspiracy.
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