by Amber Lin
“It takes more than that to shock someone who grew up in a whorehouse.”
Her eyes grew round. “What?”
Unfair, he berated himself. He’d said it to shock her, but now that he had, he hated the sorrow and sympathy in her eyes. “I worked in one for a few years,” he explained. “Sweeping floors. That kind of thing. You see a lot, even with the doors closed.”
“Oh, Nate.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “No more talking. It’s late. Go to sleep.”
He didn’t really expect her to obey. Probably because she hadn’t ever done a thing he’d told her to do, so far. But she closed her eyes, silent. Well, even if it was pity obedience, he would take it.
The moon rose, beaming through the porthole, making it brighter than before in the small space. She didn’t move except for the rise and fall of her chest. Asleep. Jesus. He stared at her, acknowledging the truth. He wouldn’t be able to use her for revenge. He wasn’t sure he could let her go, either.
Because she was too easy a mark. Too weak, too sweet. That was why he couldn’t hurt her.
He closed his eyes, too, feeling that strange fullness again when he noticed their breathing was in sync. The truth was, he couldn’t master her because he had already been mastered. Couldn’t ruin her when he was already rent apart.
She had slayed him without even trying, and for that, well, he might have hated her.
Except, it felt like something else entirely.
…
Julia dozed for a long while, floating in a dream. Inside this dream, she was cradled in a tantalizing contrast of warm silk and coarse hardness. The musky scent of sandalwood and something undefinable drifted around her. Back and forth, back and forth.
Thwack.
A thud came from far away, drawing her back to consciousness. She fought it, struggling to remain asleep. Back and forth. Back and—
A muffled male voice shouted from above her. Thwack.
All right, she was awake. Her eyes flew open. Her body froze as she took stock. She was on a ship. She was on the pirate’s ship. And she was sleeping next to him. Not precisely naked, but not precisely clothed.
Well, if she’d been trying to completely ruin herself, she couldn’t have succeeded better. Don’t think about it. That plan had merit. She could go up on deck, casually depart the ship, and return to his house. There was no need to dwell on that rather hard, ridge-like pressure against her hip. Even though… What did it mean, that ridge? No. No dwelling.
This was simple, really.
She could extract herself from his warm, cushy grasp. Even though…really, how many limbs did he have? Every single one of them was on her or around her or shoved bluntly between her thighs. And then she could leave. He would be angry—but with her embarrassment fresh in her mind, facing his wrath seemed preferable to facing his awkwardness.
Or what if he wasn’t awkward? What if he had women entertain him in his cabin all the time and this was just an ordinary morning for him?
Yes, definitely leaving. And maybe she wouldn’t even stop at his house. She would keep walking and walking until her shame swallowed her whole.
She pulled herself free and smoothed the dress. Unfortunately, the silk would rather stand out on the docks. Nate snored, and she jumped. He turned over with a sigh, sprawling over the place her body had been. Was it still warm? Was he seeking her without knowing it?
Stop thinking, remember? Oh, right.
In a sea chest tucked into the corner she found men’s clothes. They were much larger than the ones she’d had before. Still, they were less conspicuous than the rumpled turquoise supper gown. She changed quickly, imagining at any moment that Nate would wake and find her with one leg in her stockings and the other in his trousers.
Her luck held.
He was still sleeping when she rolled up the sleeves and hems. At least the black boots Mrs. Wheaton had given her to wear here could pass for men’s boots on first glance. And that was all she had—first glance. If someone gave her a second glance, she was done for.
She crept into the hallway, wondering if she could find the way she had come. It turned out to be easier than she’d expected. In the large companionway, a group of boys finished filing up the ladder. Keeping her head down, she followed them up. The sun blinded her and the deck bent her knees—but she caught herself before falling. The ship didn’t move much, just a slight sway that made her unsteady.
She was completely out in the open. Exposed. And yet, strangely, unafraid. Maybe she was still dreaming. But it seemed as though for once she was competent, in a way she hadn’t felt climbing the chimney, getting caught by Nate. She was a thief, wasn’t she? And so, she would act like one, blending into the setting, sauntering across the deck as though she had every right to be there.
No one shouted, “You there, stop!” No one noticed her at all.
The boys had spread out to various stations on the ship, most of them well clear of the gangway. Only a couple of boys were here, working together on the rail.
Then someone did shout. “Stupid boy! What are you doing?”
A man smacked a boy in the face. The boy staggered back, hand over his face, glaring at the man. It was the boy from last night, the one who had allowed her onto the ship. He was not a small child, but she flashed back to another night…when a child had been younger, and female, and she had been hit by a shopkeeper at a bazaar.
Oh God, the shopkeeper.
It all came back to her in a chaotic tumble of memories. Her desperate gamble, traversing the slums of London. And before that, the visit from the solicitor, informing her that her father was missing, that all the money was gone. That she must vacate the premises—her childhood home—within the hour. All possessions would be retained to pay her father’s debts.
She had walked away with nothing but the clothes she wore.
Juliana Hargate.
That was her name. She remembered everything. A blast of freezing water. Dark, wavy shadows. Sinking, drowning. A large hand grasping her.
“Stop,” she whispered.
The man was still yelling and waving his arms, threatening. The boy kept enough distance not to be hit…in fact, he could probably hit back. The man was older than the boy, but not by too many years. Despite the difference in their sizes, the boy looked strong—and fierce. Not cowed.
His expression was full of resentment, but he didn’t fight back. Juliana understood that with an empathy born of experience. A few weeks ago, the situation would have seemed foreign to her. But she knew now what it meant to trade one’s dignity for a hot meal and a soft place to sleep.
The boy ducked and skirted around her. The man charged after, blinded by rage, and this was her opportunity to escape. All she had to do was step aside. Walk down the gangway. Let a boy be hurt because she wasn’t brave enough to help.
Simple, really.
When the man pushed past her, she pushed back. She hadn’t planned it. God, no, she didn’t want to confront him, but she stood there anyway, blocking the path while his eyes widened in shock and fury.
“Who do you think you are?” He said something else, a string of cockney curse words she couldn’t quite understand—but she figured out the main point. He was angry at her.
He puffed up. Like an animal, his chest actually grew larger and taller right before her eyes. His lips twisted into a sneer. “New here, eh? You must be, but you’ll learn quick.”
His arm lifted, slashing the sunlight. As she watched his thick arm curve toward her, the voices of her schoolmaster rang in her ear. Willful. Impetuous. They were right, she thought grimly. Her hands formed a weak shield, yielding immediately to the force of his blow. His fist landed on her temple—the pain radiating outward until her vision blurred.
She crumpled onto the deck.
Footsteps landed closer and closer. She was too dizzy to get up. All she could do was cover her head with her hands. A whoosh of air brushed her hands, as if he had pulled back, as if
he had swung at her…and then—
Nothing.
She peeked. The young man was still standing over her, but he wasn’t looking at her. She followed his line of sight to see a large silhouette near the ladder leading up to the deck. Nate. He must have come up after her.
The light surrounding him cast a shadow on his expression. However, judging by the wary looks of the boys who had paused in their work, she suspected Nate wasn’t pleased.
His pace seemed almost leisurely as he walked toward them. When he spoke, his voice was low. “Did you hit a crewman, Wilson?”
The younger man—Wilson—appeared nervous, such a marked change from his previous aggression that he looked like someone else entirely.
Wilson shook his head. “It was Bennett, sir. He weren’t paying attention, and I had to…had to teach him a lesson, sir.”
He didn’t say the words in a threatening manner. In fact, the way he said them was almost heartbreaking. As if he’d heard them used as an excuse before, for the times when he had been hit.
Nate spoke low and firm. “Get off my ship.”
Wilson’s eyes widened. “But Captain—”
“If I see you again, I’ll call the constable. Are we clear?”
Dark emotions passed over Wilson’s face. He looked ready to argue, to fight. But in the end, he obeyed his captain. The air simmered with anger and violence, but underneath, she could feel the vibrations of sadness. Wilson’s despair at having to leave. Nate’s for sending him away.
Juliana’s hair had fallen loose of the cap. She forced herself to stand, but the world tilted until a pair of strong arms caught her.
“Easy now,” he said.
“Nate? I’m sorry.”
“Not right now, love. We’re going to have a visit with the ship’s doctor. Then you can tell me why the hell you were sneaking off my ship.”
Chapter Nine
“Leave us,” Dr. Richards said.
Nate raised an eyebrow and remained right where he was. He could admit he was hovering. He just couldn’t make himself stop. Carrying Juliana to his cabin over her protests that she could walk, she was fine, and bellowing for the doctor. He hadn’t been able to stop himself doing those things, either.
“Nate,” she said, sitting on the side of the bed. He didn’t like her upright. Should she be upright? What sort of hack doctor was Richards, anyway?
“Nate,” she said. “I’m fine. But please, do as he says. You’re making me nervous.”
“Yes, Captain. Please.” Dr. Richards’ voice was wry, a subtle censure for having a woman on board his ship, the kind of reprimand only someone he’d known a long time could make.
Well, hell, Nate hadn’t invited her. Though he’d certainly taken advantage of her presence.
She and Dr. Richards were both watching him.
Maybe he was taking this a little too seriously. And, of course, Dr. Richards wasn’t a hack. Nate hadn’t been satisfied with having a sawbones onboard. He had demanded the best, a certified London physician, and Dr. Richards had worked under him for years now. They’d never quite seen eye to eye as men, but Richards was as sharp as they came in terms of medicine.
Still, Nate had to force himself to leave the room and shut the door behind. He’d seen plenty of injuries, plenty of fights, and he knew that she’d be fine. She had survived a fall off the docks, for Christ’s sake. She would be fine.
She had to be.
He found Bennett in the mess hall. Bennett wouldn’t look at him. He had a sullen expression, almost defiant, but he wouldn’t meet Nate’s eyes. That told him all he needed to know.
“How long has Wilson been hitting you?”
“What does it matter?”
Guilt simmered in his gut, but he tamped it down. He’d seen what happened this time with his own eyes, at least the tail end of it. But it still hurt to admit that the young man he’d taken under his wing as a boy, one he’d defended, had become a bully. Had always been one. No amount of time or money or good honest work had changed that. Nate had been lying to himself about the extent of Wilson’s anger, and Bennett had paid the price.
“It matters.”
“I can take care of myself,” the boy muttered.
The words felt like a scrape over an old scar, surprisingly sensitive, leaving Nate raw. He remembered feeling like that once. It had become a point of pride with him. He refused to ask for help. And not only because no one was there to listen.
He knelt in front of Bennett. The boy sat on one of the dining benches, but the room was empty and scrubbed to a shine. Bennett turned his face away, but Nate was patient—and silently insistent. He had failed both boys—Wilson and Bennett. He couldn’t protect a grown man anymore, especially not from his own violent tendencies. But he had to make sure Bennett understood.
“Look at me.”
Reluctantly, the boy met his gaze. The side of his face was slightly red. That was the only sign of his injury. Nate suspected it wouldn’t bruise, either. Which was how Wilson had kept his behavior a secret. He had learned not to leave a mark. The tutors and sailors aboard Nightingale would have put a stop to it, but the boys had kept quiet. They came from the street, from orphanages—they had learned to stay quiet when they needed help.
“If anyone ever hurts you again, you tell me.”
Silence. Bennett’s eyes were dull with a kind of jaded wisdom, making him look eighty years old instead of nine.
“I will never punish you for telling me the truth, Bennett.”
Still nothing. Fancy words meant nothing when cold reality had already been beaten into his flesh, well before Nate had found him.
“And I will always help you.”
Bennett swallowed audibly. “She stood up to him.”
Nate nodded, unable to speak. His chest seized as it had when he’d seen her fall to the deck. His brain had calculated the seconds it would take him to clear the ladder and reach her. Too long. And Wilson had gone after her.
For a blinding second, rage had overtaken him. He had managed to stop Wilson’s advance with only a word, but in that moment he’d wanted to do more, to hurt him back, to punish him—which only proved Nate was no better. He and Wilson were of a kind. They were baited dogs, bred to fight. An animal like that could never really be tamed.
“And she was wearing men’s clothes,” Bennett said.
Nate gritted his teeth. Yes, she had been. He’d woken up to find her gone and her gown folded in his trunk. In his waking delirium he’d imagined her traipsing around his ship naked, but the reality was somehow worse.
His clothes. She’d been wearing his clothes. Where other people could see her. It was obscene. Only he could see her like that.
Bennett frowned. “She’s not like other ladies.”
“No, she’s not,” he agreed. “But Bennett, I need you to promise to come to me. If something is wrong. If someone is hurting you. Can you do that for me?”
It took him a long time, but finally the boy answered, “I can try.”
“That will have to do. Go up and finish your chores.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Nate listened to his footsteps patter away. So light. For all his bravado, he was still a child. One insightful enough to understand Juliana in only two meetings. She was brave. Beautiful.
And yes, completely unlike any other lady Nate had ever met.
Though, he had to wonder how much of that was due to her memory loss. Would she have turned her nose up at him if she had known her origins? He pictured her sitting atop him, breasts pale, expression tortured by pleasure. Would she still have let him touch her if she knew how far beneath her he really was?
…
She missed him as soon as he left. Captain Bowen. Though, if there were ever a man she could call by his given name, it would be him. Nate. After the intimacy they had shared last night, she deserved that privilege.
“Does this hurt?’ Dr. Richards asked, feeling lightly along her jawbone.
“No,
” she said, then winced. “A little.”
“And any lingering pain from your fall? No fever?”
Fever. The word brought back the full rush of horrible sensation—her fear, her father’s abandonment. Still, he might not have left her deliberately. Maybe he’d been forced away. Maybe he’d been arrested. But she couldn’t wish it true. Even if it meant her father had left her to starve—or worse—she hoped he was safe, wherever he was.
“No fever,” she said quietly.
His gaze met hers. “Any other problems I can help you with?”
She had a feeling he wasn’t simply asking about her health. “How long have you worked with Captain Bowen?” she asked.
“If you’re asking for my opinion, he’s not someone for you to rely on,” he said bluntly.
Well, then.
“He looks out for himself first. His own interests. Understand? There’s nothing wrong with that. But he’ll use you up and leave behind whatever is left.”
“Don’t hesitate to speak openly, Doctor,” she said wryly.
He gave her a grim smile. “I apologize if I’ve offended you. I simply have no desire to clean up his mess.”
“Have you done it before? Cleaned up his messes, I mean.”
Dr. Richards was silent, and she could tell he wanted to scare her away. “No,” he admitted. “But I know him too well. He’ll help you, but there will be a price.”
Yes, there would be. She’d already gotten a taste of that last night in his cabin. Carnal knowledge of his body. Full access to her own.
He was hardly the first man to pay for that sort of privilege. In fact, a loveless marriage could be construed the same way—and society had plenty of those.
“I appreciate your candor,” she finally said.
“But it won’t matter,” he predicted.
“It does matter. At least now I know what to expect.”
She’d told Nate the truth last night. She wanted to be able to choose her fate. Even if her choices were few and far between. Even if she had to choose between thievery and starvation.
Even if she chose prostitution. And called it protection.
It was a cold comfort—the ability to decide one’s fate. Her only luxury, now.
