by Eris Adderly
It seemed at some point during the night he’d rolled onto his side and Brigit had fitted her back against his chest. His right arm had conspired to drape itself over her waist, pulling her close. His left arm was … gone? No. He smirked to himself. It was under her head and completely numb.
For a long moment he lay there, indulging in the simple pleasure of inhaling her scent and trying not to grind himself against her. At least not any more than she’d notice.
What a fine way to begin a man’s morning!
He didn’t want to wake her, but if his sense of time served him correctly, as it usually did, he’d an idea of how today might begin on a different note in light of his guest.
“Mrs O’Creagh,” he murmured against her ear, trying not to startle her, but to stir her awake all the same. She let out a faint, sleepy grunt of contentment and huddled further into the curve of his body, lacing her fingers through his and drawing his arm tighter about her. He bit back a groan as her backside wriggled against him. This would never do. At least not yet.
“Brigit,” he said, with more volume and clarity. That did it.
She awoke with a sharp intake of air. He felt her whole body stiffen, out of fear or confusion, he wasn’t sure which.
Please don’t make a scene down here, girl.
John had no interest in hearing the inevitable taunts from the remaining men in the hold, the snide offers of help to subdue an unruly woman, should she raise a fuss.
The maid released a sigh that seemed to indicate she remembered where she was and melted back into his embrace.
“Mmm … John,” she mumbled, to his relief and pleasant surprise.
“Good morning, pretty girl,” he said, venturing a light kiss at the top of her ear. She didn’t object, though she made no move to rouse herself.
“It’s early,” the groggy maid said into flesh of his numb arm.
“Yes it is, girl.” John drew the cold limb out from under her neck and began the awkward process of rubbing out the pins and needles. “But let’s awake all the same. I’d like to show ye something.”
She was stirring at his words now, stretching her small body in a most pleasing arch before sitting up on the narrow platform, her hands moving to smooth over sleep-mussed hair.
The maid watched him with curiosity as he went about fitting the end of his leg into the wood and leather socket, buckling the mess of straps in a greater hurry than usual with her eyes on him. John Bone wanted pity from no one, least of all this woman who’d woken up in his bed.
False leg in place, he heaved himself upright, wincing as he put weight on it. He’d taught himself to move about without a crutch, but it was still at the high end of uncomfortable, especially in the mornings. But now was no time to complain. Brigit was looking at him with expectant eyes.
“Come on, then,” he said in a low voice, mindful of the few men who still slept. She followed him out of bed at his gesture and he turned and moved towards the stair.
For once, a day was brimming with possibility and they hadn’t fired a single cannon.
A good start, this.
John hummed to himself as the young maid trailed along after him.
* * * *
The haze of sleep wore off quickly as the cook led her about the ship. Brigit caught the curious stares of the crew, already working at their watch in the blue pre-dawn light, and felt her cheeks colour in response. Surely some of them had seen Bone bring her to sleep in his bed last night, and barring that, had seen her lying fitted against him, merry as you please, this morning.
Those thoughts aside, it had been a pleasant way to wake up, she admitted to herself. Warmth at her back, a heavy male arm draped over her. If only he’d stop calling her ‘pretty girl’, she’d have no complaint at all. It made her feel odd. She’d seen a mirror; knew what she was. Perhaps without the scars … but his silly names for her were more likely born out of the shameless way she’d behaved yesterday than anything else.
Maybe shameless, but you liked it well enough, didn’t you?
After a much needed trip to the head, she fell in behind him again and followed. Brigit listened to the sound of his steps on the deck, one quiet and one a wooden thud, and wondered what it was he wanted her to see. They arrived at the port side gunwale amidships and he came to a halt, placing his hands on the heavy railing. Unsure of what to do, she mimicked his posture and followed his gaze out into the slowly brightening distance.
“What are we looking at, Mr Bone?” Her words were quiet in the cool morning air. Though most of the crew was already buzzing about, it seemed right to keep her voice down, as though the ship herself were some great beast she didn’t want to awaken.
The cook stepped over and behind her, replacing his hands on the gunwale on either side of hers. Again, his immense warm body was at her back, just as it had been yesterday while she’d been peeling those infernal potatoes. Her pulse fluttered and flung the last of her sleepiness aside like a curtain.
Heaven help me, it may be too early for this.
“Have ye ever seen the sun rise while at sea, Mrs O’Creagh?”
She fairly melted back against him. He’d brought her up here to see a sunrise? What sort of pirate was he?
“No I haven’t, Mr Bone,” she said, still quiet.
“Then watch with me, lass,” he said near her ear.
And watch they did. The sea was glassy and calm that morning, and the endless plane of water and dome of sparsely clouded sky had been quite blue and grey when they’d arrived. Now, as they stood there, saying nothing, the horizon grew brighter by the moment. The undersides of clouds began to blush as the first rays of the sun kissed them, its blazing head just out of sight.
Bone’s forearms brushed against hers and she felt him lower his face. He didn’t kiss her, though, or whisper anything. The lower edge of his jaw came into contact with her cheekbone and rested there: comfortable, but not demanding.
Comfortable. Yes, that was just how she felt. The first bright sliver of sun was edging past the line of blue now, and the sky was moving into shades of amber and gold. Standing here, taking in this sight with nothing in the way to block her view, the subtle rise and fall of the ship underfoot, Brigit realised that for once she had no questions. She didn’t need to know anything. Once they left the railing, she’d be perfectly content to follow this man again to the galley, to prepare the meals, to listen to his stories and tell her own, perhaps be robbed of a kiss or two. The last two fingers of her right hand slid over the top of the cook’s, and she felt his thumb nudge at them from below.
They’d been standing in companionable silence for some time, and the sun hung full and low now just above the horizon, a heavy, ripe fruit blazing against the few tufts of clouds in its path. It had reached the point where they had to start looking away.
“Very lovely, Mr Bone.” It was all she could think of to say. She’d never been one for fancy words, and none she knew were the poetic sort suited to oceans and sunrises.
“So it is, Brigit,” he said, drawing a hand across the small of her back as he stepped again to her side. “The Lord is good indeed that even a pirate may be permitted to look upon his lovely creation each morning.” He caught her eye with these quiet words, and she found she could no more look directly at him when he said such things than she could at the sun.
“Shall we return to the galley then?”
She nodded, ready to busy herself with a task rather than continue to stand here and be stared at by the all-too-serious eyes of this red-bearded man.
“Then let us go to it, Mrs O’Creagh; we’ve a full day of work ahead.”
His words were matter-of-fact, but his tone was gentle as he turned from the railing and set off across the deck. Brigit followed him again past crates and rigging and working sailors, to the now familiar hatch that opened down into the galley.
What did it mean, she wondered, that she went along again without objection, as though trailing the cook down into the belly of t
he ship were an old habit, and not a path she’d trod for the first time only yesterday? Or that she’d slept through a night without waking for the first time in who knew how long?
Who cares what everything means, girl? Stop daydreaming and keep your wits about you! This is a bloody pirate ship.
* * * *
A massive pot of what was soon to be porridge was occupying most of the cook’s attention as they made ready for the day’s noon meal. Brigit busied herself with scrubbing the remaining plates she hadn’t the time to finish washing the previous evening.
Too busy being someone else’s dinner, were you?
She shook her head and glanced over at Bone. King George was rubbing his furry face over the man’s wooden leg while the cook bent at the waist and tended to the fire inside the iron stove.
“So what were ye planning to do when ye got to Boston, Mrs O’Creagh? Stay on with the widow?” He straightened himself with a grunt and struck up their conversation again.
“I’m not sure,” she admitted, bringing her eyes back to her work. “I don’t know what Mrs Collingwood’s living arrangements with her uncle were to be like; whether he had servants of his own she’d prefer. It seemed a thing to be decided after we arrived.”
“And what if she no longer required yer services? What then?” He shooed the cat away with an absent flap of the rag he untucked from his belt.
Not that it mattered now, she thought. The captain had already relieved her of her duties to the widow. But a desire that Bone should continue speaking had her answering all the same.
“I would have offered to work for my passage back to Bristol aboard The Mourning Dove, I suppose. Or, if the captain had no use for me, perhaps find an inn at the port to serve in until I’d earned enough coin to pay my way back.”
The cat had decided to look for attention at her feet now, and she reached down for a moment to scratch at a ginger ear with her wet hand. The little beast didn’t seem to appreciate this and shook his head before stalking off to his place beneath the stair.
Bone was wiping his hands on the rag. “Ye don’t seem to be much bothered to find yerself here instead of bound for Boston,” he said, not making much of a question of it, though it seemed he hoped for a response.
“I’m quite used to matters not going the way I expect, Mr Bone,” she said, scraping a dried bit of potato off a plate with her nail. “I’ve learned to make the best of what comes, and not to expect anything. That’s how a body stays free from worry, as far as I can see.”
He nodded at this, considering.
“Would ye like to see Nassau, Brigit?”
She looked up at him, blinking at his abrupt change of subject. Laying the last dish aside, she dried her own wet hands on her apron, following the big man across the room with her eyes as he moved to paw about in a drawer of utensils with a metallic clattering.
“Isn’t that on an island somewhere?” she asked. “Is that where we’re headed?”
“Jamaica, yes,” he said, his voice ringing a bit louder in success as he brought out the ladle he’d been looking for, “and it is our next port.”
“How long will it take us to get there?” she asked, moving to take up a broom that stood in the corner where the stair met the wall of the hull.
“Oh, several weeks at least, if the winds favour us and the sea is fair.”
Several weeks?
It was not any longer than it might have taken them to sail to Boston, she supposed. One night aboard The Devil’s Luck, however, had already taken her on a far different adventure than the boredom she’d expected from being cooped up with the widow.
Where would she find herself some weeks from now? Would John Bone be the only pirate she had to contend with? And who was to say she could handle him? People didn’t always show their true colours straight away. There could be trouble yet from the man. Though so far her most pressing problem was her thoughts wandering back to the feel of his hands on her.
That’s it, girl. Show me. Show me what ye want.
Brigit coloured as she remembered his words, and what was worse, he was making his way over to where she swept near the stair. She kept her eyes to the floor, but saw his hand grip the broom handle under hers, stilling her movement as he came to her side.
She didn’t know what to expect when she raised her eyes to his, but she was glad to have a grip on the wooden handle, as her hands would have been shaking had they been empty.
The boyish grin she found spreading across his face, however, caught her off guard and she couldn’t help the corners of her own mouth turning up at the sight.
“Would ye like me to show ye the port when we arrive, Brigit?”
Show her the port? What was he on about?
“We’ll be leaving the ship?”
“Of course!” He laughed, sliding his fingers up the handle to cover hers. “We’re not slaves, lass, we get shore leave. It’s in the contract.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, tilting his head down a bit as if he shared a great secret. She smiled further at his playful tone, and decided she could join in his mood.
“And what’s so special about Nassau?” she teased, angling the broom out to the side, stretching both their arms along with it, forcing the two of them to step closer together. “I’ve seen ports before.”
“Have ye?” he asked, voice moving low to meet her taunts. He tossed the broom to the side out of both their hands and caught her up at the waist as it clattered to the floor. She bent backwards slightly in his arms and became once again very aware of their bodies pressed together as he flashed her his teeth in a devious smile. “Nassau port is a pirate haven, Mrs O’Creagh. You’ll want to stay very close by my side, if I’m to show ye around, lest some scallywag lay hands on ye.”
His face was mere inches from hers now, and she clutched at the fabric of his shirt, lest she fall backwards, off balance as she was. Brigit’s gaze flitted from his teasing eyes to his mouth and she swallowed to wet her own throat.
“No, we wouldn’t want that now, would we?” Her voice came as a breath just before they came together at once, each relieved to find themselves again part of a kiss.
It was the same as yesterday: searing, heart-stopping, lovely. She could feel in the pull of his palms at her waist and the low needful sounds he made that said he, like Brigit, had been dancing around the idea of this very moment all morning, each unsure of how to approach the other again.
None of that mattered now, though, and they indulged in long moments of simple, delicious sensation.
When they parted at last, the kiss had left her without a thread of tension and neither could surrender their smiles. Bone nudged upward at her chin with a knuckle as he took half a step back to let her breathe.
“Besides,” he said, eyes merry, “the islands are nothing like home. They’re a paradise. White sand, sea the colour of a jewel, warm, sweet air.”
His words reminded her of another curious thought.
“Where’s home, Mr Bone?”
“Aside from decks of The Devil’s Luck? Tynemouth, I suppose. But I haven’t been back there in years.” The cook rubbed a broad hand over the back of his neck at this and she suspected he didn’t want to speak any more on the subject just now.
Tynemouth. It explained the accent, which she was growing to enjoy.
“I seem to have interrupted yer sweeping, Mrs O’Creagh,” he pointed out, the trace of mischief still light on his tone. “I’ll let ye return to it. I’m off to see Mr Adams—our cooper,” he said when he saw the blank look on her face, “about our fresh water supply. I’ll be back before long and we should be nearly ready for noon meal.”
“Upon your return then, Mr Bone,” she said, retrieving the broom from where it had fallen. She wanted to go with him, but it would seem silly to trail him through the ship wherever he went like a lost lamb, so she took up her sweeping again.
“Brigit,” he acknowledged her with a warm nod as he mounted the stair and disappeared up through the hatch.
* * * *
She’d been busying herself about the wide planks of the galley floor some several minutes, gathering a neat pile of crumbs and dust together in one central spot, when she heard footsteps on the stair. Brigit looked up from the rhythm of her passes with the broom to see a man descending into the galley.
Mopping at her brow with the back of her hand, she stood straight and paused in her work, waiting for the sailor to see her there.
Now what does this one want?
By the time he reached the bottom step, his eyes had adjusted to the dimmer light of the galley and when they swung around and landed on Brigit he grinned.
“Ah, so here’s the new cook’s mate. You that lady’s maid?” His lopsided smile split his face wider and he pushed the sleeves of his shirt back one at a time to reveal his forearms as he stepped further into the space.
“No longer, it seems,” she answered, taking up her sweeping again with a wary eye for the inquisitive pirate.
Brigit imagined he might be a handful of years older than she was, and solidly built, if not nearly so vast as Mr Bone. His skin was surprisingly pale for a man of the sea, and watery blue eyes appraised her above a crude smirk. Lank, unwashed dark hair fell about his face at his cheekbones and jaw, and he shoved it back out of his eyes with a cocky hand.
“Name’s William Platt,” he said, making a gesture with his fingers near his forehead as though doffing an invisible hat. His eyes were on her as she moved and she tried to hide her complete lack of approval.
So, he’s come to stare at the cook’s new pet, has he?
“Brigit O’Creagh,” she responded in kind. Short and polite seemed the best approach, forced though it was. No need to irritate a man when she didn’t know if he had a temper.
“Where’s our Mr Bone then?” he asked, glancing about.
“Off to see the cooper.”
She allowed her work to take her around to the opposite side of the cutting block, caution nudging her to position the large piece of furniture between herself and this Platt.
