bellow.
Quick footsteps could be heard below, followed by a querulous, “Aye, sir?”
“We require tea.”
“Beg pardon, sir?” The invisible man’s dismay was palpable.
“Tea, Mr. Kirkland. We require tea, if you please.”
There was a long pause and a befuddled “Aye, sir” and fading footsteps.
Nathan turned back with an elaborate sweep of the hand. “Tea, directly.”
Frowning with a bit more concentration than might have been necessary, he busied with charts and logbook. The dark eyes crept up at one point to linger with open avidity on her bare calf. The look was gone with a quickness that made her think perhaps it had been imagined, a mask of inscrutability now in place. Nonetheless, she drew her legs under the chair and rearranged the quilt more closely.
Cate had noticed blessed little about him earlier. In the light of a new day, he wasn’t nearly as ominous. He was slightly above average height. She had expected a larger, a more formidable figure for someone who had been accredited with such deeds as he. Shot 13 times? Beyond an aristocratic nose, the high cheekbones and forehead, not much more could be discerned, for his features were lost in the abundant beard.
There was no getting past the hair: a voluminous, mop-like snarl that reached well below his shoulders. Bound by the omnipresent headscarf, which showed signs of once having been blue, the raven-colored mass was a tangle of braids. Some were made up of only a few strands, while others were nearly the thickness of a finger, many of those haphazardly worked together into larger braids. All were secured by random bits of colorful bits of yarn or thread, twine, or strips of cloth. A delicate metallic jingle accompanied his every move. At one point, he turned the back of his head to her and the light caught near a score of what she first thought to be silver beads. She then realized they were actually tiny bells, barely the size of the tip of her pinky.
…one for every virgin…
The mind reeled.
Aside from his hair, a few rings on his fingers and a tattered sash at his waist, there was nothing peacockish about him. Compared to the ornate swords in the urn, the one at his side was a workman’s model. His baldric, its hand-sized buckle and pistol, were equally plain.
He felt her staring, and so she diverted her attention to anything: the great guns poised at the stern windows. Their muzzles jutting under the gallery sill, they lurked like two pugnacious brass watchdogs. Blackthorne followed her line of attention and smiled.
“A ship’s only as good as her stern chasers,” he said with a loving gaze.
Said affection was borne out by the names roughly inscribed in the wooden carriages: Widower and Merdering Mary .
“How many do you have?” she asked.
He flopped in his chair and propped his feet on the table, but then yanked them down.
“Thirty-six.” The announcement came with no small amount of pride. It was considerably less than the count given on the Constancy ; one more bit of gross misinformation.
“And we can serve up a minute-fifty barrage for hours, thanks to Pryce and Master Gunner MacQuarrie. They do know how to drill a crew,” Nathan said, eyes rounding in admiration.
Cate cringed at the mention of the First Mate’s name. The walnut-colored eyes didn’t miss a thing, the dark dash of brows narrowing.
“I can’t say I entirely trust the man. He sought to have my clothes cut off,” she said, suppressing a shudder.
Nathan chuckled. “Can’t say as I blame him. I’d wager not a man aboard hasn’t fancied that.”
The man she assumed to be the earlier-beckoned Kirkland came up the steps from below, bearing a tray. The apparent cook was a round man with an even rounder face. Like many others, he wore a kerchief around his head, this one being so small it clung precariously to his bald, sun-scaled crown.
“Would the lady care for a bit o’ toast?” Mr. Kirkland asked, hovering anxiously.
“Bread?” The
Quick footsteps could be heard below, followed by a querulous, “Aye, sir?”
“We require tea.”
“Beg pardon, sir?” The invisible man’s dismay was palpable.
“Tea, Mr. Kirkland. We require tea, if you please.”
There was a long pause and a befuddled “Aye, sir” and fading footsteps.
Nathan turned back with an elaborate sweep of the hand. “Tea, directly.”
Frowning with a bit more concentration than might have been necessary, he busied with charts and logbook. The dark eyes crept up at one point to linger with open avidity on her bare calf. The look was gone with a quickness that made her think perhaps it had been imagined, a mask of inscrutability now in place. Nonetheless, she drew her legs under the chair and rearranged the quilt more closely.
Cate had noticed blessed little about him earlier. In the light of a new day, he wasn’t nearly as ominous. He was slightly above average height. She had expected a larger, a more formidable figure for someone who had been accredited with such deeds as he. Shot 13 times? Beyond an aristocratic nose, the high cheekbones and forehead, not much more could be discerned, for his features were lost in the abundant beard.
There was no getting past the hair: a voluminous, mop-like snarl that reached well below his shoulders. Bound by the omnipresent headscarf, which showed signs of once having been blue, the raven-colored mass was a tangle of braids. Some were made up of only a few strands, while others were nearly the thickness of a finger, many of those haphazardly worked together into larger braids. All were secured by random bits of colorful bits of yarn or thread, twine, or strips of cloth. A delicate metallic jingle accompanied his every move. At one point, he turned the back of his head to her and the light caught near a score of what she first thought to be silver beads. She then realized they were actually tiny bells, barely the size of the tip of her pinky.
…one for every virgin…
The mind reeled.
Aside from his hair, a few rings on his fingers and a tattered sash at his waist, there was nothing peacockish about him. Compared to the ornate swords in the urn, the one at his side was a workman’s model. His baldric, its hand-sized buckle and pistol, were equally plain.
He felt her staring, and so she diverted her attention to anything: the great guns poised at the stern windows. Their muzzles jutting under the gallery sill, they lurked like two pugnacious brass watchdogs. Blackthorne followed her line of attention and smiled.
“A ship’s only as good as her stern chasers,” he said with a loving gaze.
Said affection was borne out by the names roughly inscribed in the wooden carriages: Widower and Merdering Mary .
“How many do you have?” she asked.
He flopped in his chair and propped his feet on the table, but then yanked them down.
“Thirty-six.” The announcement came with no small amount of pride. It was considerably less than the count given on the Constancy ; one more bit of gross misinformation.
“And we can serve up a minute-fifty barrage for hours, thanks to Pryce and Master Gunner MacQuarrie. They do know how to drill a crew,” Nathan said, eyes rounding in admiration.
Cate cringed at the mention of the First Mate’s name. The walnut-colored eyes didn’t miss a thing, the dark dash of brows narrowing.
“I can’t say I entirely trust the man. He sought to have my clothes cut off,” she said, suppressing a shudder.
Nathan chuckled. “Can’t say as I blame him. I’d wager not a man aboard hasn’t fancied that.”
The man she assumed to be the earlier-beckoned Kirkland came up the steps from below, bearing a tray. The apparent cook was a round man with an even rounder face. Like many others, he wore a kerchief around his head, this one being so small it clung precariously to his bald, sun-scaled crown.
“Would the lady care for a bit o’ toast?” Mr. Kirkland asked, hovering anxiously.
“Bread?” The
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