Page 5 of Captive of the Pirate King
Locke gazes at my foot a moment, and then he laughs. “No wonder you were embarrassed. You have feet like a woman’s. Don’t let the captain see these.” He tweaks my toe. “He’s not particular, the captain. When it comes to bedmates, anyone will do, long as the hole is tight and the flesh is soft. He’s as like to take a boy to bed as a female.”
I swallow hard, my dry throat aching.
Locke’s warm thick fingers around my ankle are making my stomach flutter strangely. I’ve felt this way before, one too many times. These feelings always end with a flurry of hastily discarded clothes, rhythmic panting, and a burst of incandescent pleasure. They never last beyond that initial heady glee.
I’ve tried to fall in love, truly I have—but every man I’ve bedded has either bored or disgusted me within a day or two of the act. Some of them didn’t even take me beyond that crest of pleasure. They left me aching, wanting, mad with frustration.
It’s just as well that I don’t have the option of bedding this well-toned pirate with the large comfortable hands.
Locke releases my foot. “Hurry up and put those on.” He nods to the half-boots. “And when you’re done, report straight to Cook in the galley. The less Captain Neelan sees of you, the less likely he is to change his mind and have you tossed overboard.”
As he begins to mount the ladder I say, “Please—where are we bound?”
“We’ve got a good haul,” Locke replies over his shoulder. “We’ll be heading for Ravensbeck to unload it.”
“Ravensbeck,” I murmur. “The mysterious pirate haven? The one that none of the seven allied kings have been able to find?”
“The same.”
He disappears up the ladder. Quickly I lace up my new boots and shuffle along the corridor, sniffing my way toward the heavy odor of sizzling fat and herbs.
Galleys are always near the rear of a ship, and great precautions must be taken to avoid a fire spreading throughout the vessel. Like the merchant ship, this pirate vessel is big enough to have a large galley, with an iron stove that hangs by chains from the beams above and is stabilized by more chains bolted to the floor. Even in rough seas, when the ship pitches about, the stove can swing with the motion and never touch the walls.
The floor of the galley is lined with sheets of tin, and there’s a barrel of sand nearby for fire prevention. The sheer size of the space impresses me—it’s bigger than the galley on the merchant vessel. Vegetables and fruit hang on strings or in bags from the ceiling, and they look surprisingly fresh. There’s an enormous wheel of cheese in a square dish on the table, a knife jutting from it.
The merchant sailors told me stories of other ships where the captain and officers ate delectable food and served the men only the cheapest preserved tack. “We’re lucky,” they told me, “lucky that the captain values our health as well as his own. Many a good sailor has turned pirate just for the promise of good liquor and all the fresh food he could eat.”
Looking around at this galley, I can believe that a malnourished sailor might consider turning pirate for such luxury.
The stove is swinging right now, proof of the roughening seas outside. The cook works over a cast-iron pan inset into the heated surface, pushing onions about in grease that hisses and spits.
He must have started cooking right after the battle concluded. No self-respecting sea cook would have the flames going during a fight—unless he was the reckless type. Or very confident that his side would win quickly.
The cook is a thin, leathery man with tattoos winding up both arms. He wears baggy pants, a thick apron, and a shirt with torn-off sleeves. He glances my way, rubbing his nose with a lean wrist. His eyebrows bristle wild over sharp gray eyes.
“Who are you?” he says.
“New cabin boy,” I mutter. “I’m Nick.”
“From theWending Willow?” he asks, referring to the merchant ship.
I nod, trying to look downcast and grateful and angry all at the same time. Which isn’t difficult, because I’m feeling every one of those emotions, and a few more besides.
“Welcome to theArdent. We’ve got a cabin boy,” says the cook. “But he’s goddam useless. You a good worker?”
Am I a good worker? I honestly don’t know. Growing up in a wealthy family afforded me a certain amount of privilege—and a certain amount of disadvantage, too, because I know very little of manual labor. Or cooking. Or anything, really.
A sudden pang shoots through my heart, the desperate wish that I had stayed where I was—safe and wealthy. Betrothed to a dull duke who was so nearsighted he didn’t mind my splotched face—someone who would provide for me throughout the rest of my life. I would have been welcome at Court for years to come, issued invitations to every important gathering, eagerly befriended by women of lower rank who wanted to raise themselves by clinging to me.
I could have concealed my magic easily for the rest of my life, and never been tempted to use it at all.
Instead I stand bloody and dejected, disguised as a boy, staring into the galley of a pirate ship.
“I’m new to the work,” I say. “But I learn fast. And I want to survive here.”
Something akin to respect sparks in the cook’s gray eyes. “Honesty. I like it. Well, boy, you can begin by peeling those potatoes.” He nods at a nearby basket. “Grab that knife and get to work.”
Peeling the skins from the potatoes takes more finesse than I expected, but I soon get the hang of it. I’m glad for the solidity of the vegetables, for the smooth wood of the knife handle against my palm.
