The Pirate Captain by Kerry Lynne Page B

closest to bread she had seen on the Constancy had been ship’s biscuit, appropriately called hardtack, since only lengthy soaking rendered it edible.
    Blackthorne chuckled at her awe. “Aye, softtack. Ovens were installed a bit ago. Not large ones, mind, but enough to allow for a bit of variety. Pirates are a heartless and scurrilous lot, but our bellies still appreciate a fair meal.”
    The last time she had eaten was breakfast past, under Grogan’s watchful eye, and meager it had been. Vomiting and the terrors of the day before had left her quite sharp set, and her stomach growled loudly at the suggestion of such a feast. Blackthorne was quick to clear his throat loudly enough to cover the sound.
    “No worries, luv,” Blackthorne grinned. “Let it never be said someone went hungry under me watch.”
    “That would be lovely, Mr. Kirkland,” she said at last.
    “And perhaps a bit of fruit?” the cook suggested.
    She nodded and he scurried away, obviously pleased by his insightfulness.
    Blackthorne rose and made the host. The ritual of serving—the murmured inquires of “Milk?” “Sugar?” and “Honey?” and the clatter of porcelain and tinkling of the spoon—eased the tension. As he bent, she noticed there were bells in his mustache, as well. Similar to those in his hair, they hung asymmetrically: one at the corner of his mouth, the other high over the opposite lip.
    …one for every virgin…
    Then what do those two mean?
    Tar-stained, but long-fingered and finely boned, his hands moved with surprising gracefulness. The porcelain’s delicacy was a sharp contrast to the lacework of fine scars across the backs and knuckles as he passed her cup.
    He poured his own, sipped with exaggerated delicacy and nearly gagged. Struggling against the urge to spit it out, he rolled it from side to side in his mouth. He managed a hard swallow at last, his lip curling in disgust.
    “Vile stuff,” came out in a half-strangled rasp.
    Cate took a sip and closed her eyes in pleasure. These being pirates, something in the “gunpowder” variety had been expected, but this was aromatic and slightly spicy, one never tasted before. Setting down the blue-flowered cup, she looked up to find him staring, round-eyed.
    “What?” Hitching the quilt higher, she glanced to see if she was more indecent than thought.
    “Your eyes. They changed color.”
    “Oh, that,” she said, averting them to the table. “I’ve been told as much before. I’m sorry, I can’t help it. It depends on—”
    “No, no, ’tis all well…it’s just…if you might warn a soul. Yesterday they looked like—”
    “An idol that cursed you, I think you said.”
    “Aye. Now, they’re the color of Gordos Bay.”
    She had heard any number of references through her life, most people being at a loss to assign a name to the color, but never anything quite that impassioned.
    “Almost green, then,” Blackthorne said pensively. He ducked his head to see once more. “And now, almost blue…but not quite. Odd…indescriptably odd.”
    He shook his head, his bells jingling with the movement, and then darted another look to see if they had changed again. Seizing upon the distraction, she cleared her throat, in essence calling the meeting to order. She gave her hair another cursory smoothing. Half-drowned and sleep-mussed, wearing a blood-smeared and torn shift, she knew she must have presented a sorry sight.
    “May I ask again, Captain,” she began levelly, “what do you plan to do with me?”
    His expression sobered. His features were carefully arranged, a skill at which she was discovering he was very accomplished. “Why were you on the Constancy ?”
    “I had to leave England, rather quickly,” Cate said after some deliberation. “The Constancy was the first ship away for a price I could afford.”
    Blackthorne cocked a suspicious eyebrow. “Wanted to leave or had to leave?”
    She pensively chewed the inside of her mouth as she traced the scalloped