Page 43 of Kidnapped by the Pirate
He spied on Hawk from time to time where the man stood at the helm or at the bow, occasionally conferring with Mr. Snell. The crew went about their tasks, and they really were just…men. Men with hopes and fears, who could be brutal, yes. But the workaday routine on the ship was much the same as it would be on a vessel under any flag.
The crew clearly respected Hawk—and feared him, judging by the nervous glances shot his way after some sort of equipment was dropped and had to be repaired. He glowered, and Mr. Snell went over to give the men a talking-to.
Hawk stood apart from his crew, and Nathaniel supposed it was what men in power typically did. It seemed rather lonely. Pirates boasted of a brotherhood, but Hawk didn’t appear truly part of it.
A shriek split the air above, and Nathaniel jerked his head back to see the lookout dangling from the mainsail rigging, arms flailing, one tangled foot all that stood between him and crashing too far to the deck.
Heart racing, Nathaniel leapt onto the rope ladder, flying up it the way he’d once scaled the towering oak at the edge of Hollington’s farthest meadow.
Shouts below blended into an indistinguishable din, fading as Nathaniel focused on the terrified lookout, his screams like shattering glass. Squinting into the merciless sun, Nathaniel climbed, willing the man to hold on just a few moments more…
Hooking his arm through a rung, he stretched to the left. “Grab my hand!”
The lookout reached for him wildly, face beet red beneath his beard, long, dark hair flapping in the breeze. His slick fingers slid past the tips of Nathaniel’s, and the poor man’s ankle—holding up his entire weight where the line was twisted around it—was surely about to give way.
Nathaniel leaned farther, muscles straining, left foot off the ladder now. His belly swooped and spun, his instincts howling to retreat to safety. Another few inches and he’d lose his grip, dooming them both. But as he met the man’s terrified eyes, he couldn’t abandon him.
“On three, you swing this way, and I’ll lean out. One, two, three!”
Clutching the edge of the ladder with one hand and foot, Nathaniel lunged as the lookout did, and their hands met firmly. Hauling the upside-down man closer, Nathaniel got both his feet back on the ladder. “Now untwist the rope from your ankle. Kick it free. I’ve got you.” Please let me have him.
Panting, the man did as he was told. For a sickening thump of Nathaniel’s heart, he fell, their hands still clasped. But Nathaniel held fast, ignoring an agonizing grind in his body, the man’s entire weight jolting his shoulder—which screamed, although Nathaniel did not, tasting blood where he bit his tongue.
Don’t let go! Come on!
It was likely only seconds before the lookout got his feet on the ladder below Nathaniel and let go of his hand to cling to the ropes, but a lifetime rushed by in a tangle of images—Susanna’s sunny smile; Mr. Chisholm grasping his shoulder fondly; running across fields and swimming through clear summer lakes; Hawk’s blue eyes boring into him, his tattoo covered in Nathaniel’s seed.
With a wretched sob, the lookout clambered down, clearly desperate to have solid wood beneath him. Nathaniel followed, eager himself to be off the wavering rope.
On the deck, the lookout had crumpled to his knees, one man patting his shoulder and another handing him a measure of rum. The crew had of course all gathered, and one said, “Are you part fucking monkey, or what?”
Blinking, Nathaniel realized the man was talking to him. He glanced around, finding all eyes looking his way, including Hawk’s. Hawk stared at him with such intensity, nostrils flaring, that Nathaniel found he couldn’t speak. He shrugged, wincing as his left shoulder flared hot.
“Mr. Pickering!” Hawk shouted. “He’s injured.”
Nathaniel’s throat was dry as a desert, but he croaked, “No, I’m fine.”
Hawk still watched him with a thunderous expression, hands fisting and unclenching. “What the hell were you thinking? You have no business up there.”
“Saved O’Connell’s life. I say he gets a round of rum tonight!” a voice called out, others joining in with their agreement.
Mr. O’Connell pushed to his feet, swaying, his face still alarmingly red, long, curly hair sweat-soaked. He stuck out his hand. “Thank you. God bless you!”
Nathaniel grasped his rough, sweaty palm, and a cry of “Huzzah!” went up among the men. Nathaniel smiled, but it quickly vanished when he caught Hawk’s narrowed gaze again.
Through a clenched jaw, Hawk bit out, “Mr. Pickering, take him to my cabin and examine him fully.”
More cries of “Huzzah!” echoed after Nathaniel as he climbed down the ladder to the lower deck, the pain in his left shoulder intensifying with each step. The surgeon, an older man with a rounding belly and gray hair, urged him to sit on the side of the bed. Cheeks hot as he remembered the filthy, wonderful things he’d done on that surface, Nathaniel did as he was bade.
