The Maid and The Cook

by Eris Adderly

  He stood there eyeing her, weight on one leg and the other bent, thumbs hooked into the top edge of his breeches, all but pointing at his groin with his other fingers.

  “Cap’n has that widow of yours locked away in his cabin, you know. Don’t think he wants to share with the rest of us, Miss Brigit.”

  Miss Brigit? Miss? What did he take her for? The ship’s new whore?

  The first kindling of anger flared across her cheeks at his rude address, a fact Platt appeared to enjoy.

  “No, I don’t imagine he would.” Her retort had the beginnings of cheek to it. She was more than ready now for this smug pirate to be away from the galley.

  He sauntered over to the block and rested his weight on the heels of his palms on either corner, lewd gaze raking over her bosom as he stood there.

  “Mr Bone’s a generous man,” he continued his taunt, leaning forward, “perhaps he’ll see the rest of the crew gets a fair portion.”

  Brigit was standing still at this point, both hands with a tight grip on the broom handle, knuckles flexed. She’d spent her youth in a household with four brothers. While she wasn’t keen on starting a fight, she bloody well knew how to finish one.

  Just you make one move, William Platt.

  The man wasn’t entirely unpleasant to look at, she could admit, but in the span of a few minutes she’d already had enough of this arrogant prat. He’d have a scrap on his hands if he thought he was going to be getting any sort of “portion” of her.

  “Mrs O’Creagh.” A third voice joined them, along with the thump-step she’d come to know over the last day. “I’ve just heard that—Platt? What do ye want down here?”

  Bone turned at the bottom of the stair and stepped into the galley. Her grip on the broom relaxed.

  “Just thought I’d see if anything new had been added to the menu,” the younger sailor said, eyes still plainly assessing the new potential for sport on the opposite side of the cutting block.

  “Whatever gave ye that idea, Mr Platt?” The cook moved to stand just behind Brigit, one of his heavy hands rising to cover her shoulder in a possessive manner.

  Some series of looks flew between the two men, Bone’s end of which she couldn’t see, and Platt ended it in a shrug and stepped back from the block, the mischievous grin still plastered across his pale face.

  “Only thought I’d check, Bone,” he said with a smirk, stepping back towards the stair. “A man never knows.”

  “Well now he does,” the big man behind her said as the younger sailor mounted the steps. He gave her shoulder another squeeze.

  “And Platt,” he called after the other man who turned back for a moment at his words, “make sure the rest of the crew knows, as well. I don’t expect to see anyone else down here making inquiries about the ‘menu’. Ye follow?”

  “All right, Bone, all right,” he said, putting up his hands in mock surrender before he made his way up through the hatch.

  She angled her face to look up at the cook then, and he narrowed his eyes in the direction of the stair, shaking his head. “Bloody Platt.”

  His curse made her giggle and she turned to face him as he lowered his eyes to hers.

  “Look what happens,” he said, tracing a knuckle along the side of her throat. “I leave a sweet unattended for but a few minutes and here they come, ready to get their hands into the honey jar. Are ye alright, Brigit?”

  “I’m fine Mr Bone,” she said, arching her neck against his touch, “though Mr William Platt may have grown a lump on his head if you’d been much longer.” She gestured with the broom, and the deep sound of his laughter vibrated pleasantly through her chest.

  “Perhaps I should have waited then! Now let’s call these animals down for noon meal, pretty girl, I think this porridge is about ready.”

  * * * *

  Platt.

  John shook his head to himself as he ladled out porridge to the line of sailors, keeping an eye on their hands to see that they didn’t take more than the single piece of tack each as they passed.

  Not a quarter of an hour he’d been gone and already one of them had come sniffing around like a dog looking for scraps. He had no specific dislike for William Platt. The man was an able member of the crew, pulled his weight and minded the quartermaster as far as John could see. But today he’d wanted to cuff the bastard and haul him out of the galley by his ear. He stole a glance at Brigit, who’d taken up her position filling the men’s mugs with beer again.

  If he wanted to remember a time when he’d been this territorial with a woman he’d have to go back to his earliest days at sea, which seemed to him a lifetime ago. Still a whelp of a lad, barely old enough to be called a man, he’d imagined, like a fool, a girl would wait for him all the long months while he sailed. He’d learned that lesson quickly enough, and it had been ‘pay for affection’ from then on out. Best not to become too fond.

  Today, though, he watched with interest as pockets of quiet welled up amid the crew’s usual raucous meal time banter while they stood in line for their food. Eyes would flit to the maid, and then back to him, and one deckhand would bend to another’s ear and mumble something low and inaudible.

  Yes, Platt had spread the word indeed. There would be some stir that not only did the cook not intend to share his unexpected bounty, but that John Bone, usually far less enthusiastic about women than the younger members of the crew, was taking this much of an interest at all.

  He dished out several more servings of porridge, greeting the crew as he went.

  “Mr George. Winters. Mr Osbourne, Mr Grey. And where’s Hezekiah? Isn’t he on first watch today?”

  “Ha! Don’t worry about me, Mr Bone!” The asked-after bosun’s voice boomed from the stair as he entered the galley. “You know I won’t be missing a meal!”

  Yes, this part of his day was as it had been for years. But other parts?

  The maid had a small smile for him when he looked her way and he felt a different sort of hunger churn inside him. The idea of Platt laying hands on her had made him miserable, but worse was the idea of her allowing it. The deckhand was a good many years younger than he was, surely more pleasing to the eye for a woman her age.

  He’d been so relieved to hear she’d been about to crack him over the head for his troubles. Still, he shouldn’t presume her acceptance of his kisses for a night and her calling his name meant she’d given herself over to him and him alone. There was an entire crew of men here, most younger than he, and none missing part of a limb.

  For God’s sake, John, be easy. None of the men have laid a hand on her, and ye haven’t seen her looking at any of them as though she’d want it.

  The captain, he suspected, wasn’t having any of these sorts of problems with that blonde widow of his. Not if any of the rumours he’d already heard held any water. He sighed to himself. Men on a ship were worse gossips than any circle of wives ever was.

  John straightened himself, stretching his back. The line of men was thinning at last. Soon enough he’d have Brigit O’Creagh to himself again, though what sort of promise that held he wasn’t yet sure.

  * * * *

  Brigit was ready to admit she’d rather liked Bone coming to her defence against the crude advances of the far-too-sure-of-himself Platt, whether she’d truly needed his help or not.

  She spooned down her porridge in great mouthfuls, ignoring its bland taste in the wake of the robust appetite she’d built up from the morning’s work. Bone stood at the cutting block, scratching away at a piece of parchment with a nubby quill he’d produced from one of the cabinets opposite the stove.

  “What are you writing?” she asked, moving to wash her now empty bowl.

  “List of what we need at Nassau,” he said, appearing to review whatever it was he’d written.

  It was some small surprise to see him writing, and she decided to ask him sometime who had taught him. Brigit certainly couldn’t write, at least no more than her own name, which her mother had taken pains to see her le
arn.

  She watched his thick fingers fold the paper in two before he turned back to the same cabinet to lock list, quill, and inkwell inside with a small key on a thin leather cord he brought out from inside his shirt. The key reminded her of something Platt had said, and now that she was no longer distracted by having to thwart his attentions, her curiosity reawakened.

  “Mr Bone,” she said, “may I ask you a question?”

  “That depends, lass”—he grinned over at her—“if I answer right, will I have another of those kisses from ye?”

  Brigit gave him a look of amusement, but took his tease as permission. “Earlier, Mr Platt said something about Mrs Collingwood being locked up in the captain’s room, and that he didn’t want to ‘share’ with the rest of the crew. Is … sharing … with the crew … is that what usually happens?” The end of her question came out as more of a quiet squeak than she’d intended and she silently cursed herself for sounding so afraid.

  You’re right to be afraid. What do you think you could do if a ship full of criminals was determined to have a go? Run away?

  “Well,” he said, appearing to take her seriously, “it’s not as if we have women on the ship at all regular-like for a man to know what ‘usually’ happens. In fact, I can’t think of any before the widow and yerself.”

  He pulled off the heavy apron he’d worn to serve the meal, hanging it on a peg that jutted from the wall near the pantry door. She pressed him, sure she needed an answer but unsure how to ask.

  “It was a welcome thing for you to chase Platt above decks today, Mr Bone, but … will I … I mean, does your word carry weight? The other men, will they … will I be expected to …?”

  “They’ll listen if they want to eat!” He laughed, tugging at the twin braids that fell over his chest. “No, Brigit, I suspect Mr Platt was merely trying his luck this morning. Leave a fine piece of temptation out where men can find it and that’s what happens.”

  Brigit chafed a bit as she bent to stack the unused plates back beneath the cutting block. No man had reason to be calling her a fine piece of anything. It was one thing to enjoy the attention she was receiving from this cook, but quite another to start imagining she was anything other than the first available female to be thrown in amongst a deprived group of men.

  Well, second available female.

  “Do you think the widow is … is being treated well?” She couldn’t help but be at least moderately concerned. The widow likely never had to deal with men of this ilk before their current unplanned adventure. Haughty and stiff though the woman was, she didn’t deserve to be used badly.

  “Oh, I don’t think she’ll be hurt,” he replied, eyes focused somewhere distant as though he looked elsewhere for a proper way to answer her question. “The captain has a reputation, but I don’t imagine he’ll do anything yer widow doesn’t already want done.”

  Now that was a cryptic way to put it. And Black Edmund, captain of The Devil’s Luck did have a reputation, though more for merciless looting of ships than anything to do with women. Still …

  “Beside all that,” Bone said, breaking into her thoughts, “I don’t think Mr Till would let her come to any harm. He’ll make sure the captain keeps his head about him.” It seemed he meant this to be reassuring, but it only confused her further.

  “Who’s Mr Till, then?”

  “Quartermaster.”

  “Oh. But how will he know what the captain and Mrs Collingwood get up to?” She moved to gather up some of the remaining pieces of ship’s biscuit and made to return them to their bin in the pantry. Bone took up what was left and followed along behind her.

  “Ah. Well.” He cleared his throat. “Captain Blackburn and Mr Till are like brothers. They share everything.”

  Brigit nearly dropped her armful of the hard bread when her mind put together what the cook was trying to explain.

  “You mean they …? I mean … both of them?” Her mouth hung partly open as she put away the hard rations of bread, one by one, looking back at Bone for confirmation.

  “Probably.” His eyes didn’t meet hers, and he looked, oddly enough, embarrassed to be telling her this. She couldn’t keep her thoughts to herself.

  “That poor woman! I don’t think she has any idea what to do with one man, let alone two.”

  Some small piece of something had worked its way into her slipper, and Brigit leaned against a tall stack of several bags of what was probably grain to stand on one foot and pull off the shoe opposite to shake it loose.

  “Well I wasn’t there, lass, but I did hear from some of the men who were on watch last night and I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” He chuckled as he put the last of his own share of the tack away. She wiggled her shoe back on and looked up at him.

  “What makes you say that?”

  He turned a merry eye her way. “Some of the crew who passed by the door to the stateroom heard yer widow, ah … ‘enjoying’ Mr Till and the captain’s company, if ye will?” He grinned at this, pleased with his turn of phrase. “Said she was making a fine lot of noise, too. Though I don’t think she sounded at all as lovely as ye did last night, pretty girl.”

  Bone had a conspiratorial wink for her at this, but Brigit had heard enough. She folded her arms across her chest and met his eye.

  I’ll not be mocked.

  “Don’t call me that, John Bone. I’m no man’s ‘pretty girl’, and you know it.”

  He looked crestfallen, and for a moment she winced at her own harshness.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs O’Creagh. I thought we—”

  “No!” She wouldn’t play these games. “I’m happy for us to … to have our fun down here, Mr Bone. You seem an honourable man, and I don’t know that I expected as much from a pirate, but I’ll have an end to all the ‘pretty’ and ‘lovely’, if you please. I know what I am, and I know what I’m not.”

  His face grew dark at her words, and he drew himself up, taking a step towards her. Not the reaction she’d been expecting. She flattened herself against the sacks of grain.

  “What do ye mean, ye know what ye are?” His voice was low now, menacing. Brigit stood her ground.

  “Don’t play with me, Mr Bone. A woman doesn’t have a face that looks like mine without being told about it. It’s a wonder the crew had any appetite at all after my serving them.”

  For a man his size, he certainly could move. In a breath he was on her, pinning her against the stack of sacks. Blue eyes flashed and he gripped her chin between thumb and forefinger, brows drawn down in anger as he towered over her.

  “Don’t ye ever—ever!—let me hear ye speak of yerself that way again!” His words came in a growl. She’d not seen temper like this yet from the man, and it made her want to cower. His eyes searched hers for an excruciating moment and Brigit felt something inside herself break.

  “John, I—”

  “Which one of us is perfect, Brigit?” He rushed to cut her off, giving his peg a solid thump against the deck to make his point.

  In the space of a breath she went from cynical to welling with tears. The man was missing a leg, and she’d been grumbling about her looks. She couldn’t meet his eyes and her gaze fell to the grim line of his mouth, his beard. His body softened against hers then and he released her chin, though he still kept her trapped between him and the grain. She shifted on her feet, preparing to say something, anything, when he spoke again, less angry this time, but still terribly serious.

  “Now you listen to me, Brigit O’Creagh. I know what ye are, as well. You’re a bright young woman who wasn’t supposed to board a pirate ship. Ye were handed over to a man ye didn’t know, a lame cook who’s old enough to know better himself, and ye smiled at him all the same.”

  She really couldn’t look at him now, though her hands moved of their own accord to grip fistfuls of his shirt in an effort to steel herself against the onslaught of unfamiliar emotions his words were bringing.

  “And not only did ye smile,” he continued, making her face hea
t up even more, “ye made his entire day bright. The minute ye fell down the stairs and I caught ye, Brigit, I was already a lost cause. And now this morning I’m ready to knock another man on his arse for his even thinking he can have ye. Because I want ye. So you’ll be called ‘pretty girl’ and ‘lass’ and whatever other names I can think of, and I’ll hear no more fuss over it!”

  Not even half a heartbeat passed after she met his eyes again before they’d seized one another up in a furious, desperate kiss. His two hands were on either side of her face and she clutched at his shoulders, devouring in a fever the sincere want this man offered; the one thing she’d never, ever had.

  Their tongues spoke silent, urgent volumes into each other.

  A nip of teeth at a lower lip.

  I want this.

  A deep, curling sweep of a tongue, one across the other.

  Do you see what this does to me?

  A greedy pull of lips and a quiet groan.

  I need you. Can you feel it?

  Somewhere in the delirium of acceptance, his kisses had trailed down her chin and over her jaw. His mouth pulled at her ear and lapped at her throat, and she clung to him, even as his arms crushed them together at the waist.

  Bone stilled his consumption of her with his face buried in her neck and merely held her to him, breath coming hot against her collar bone. She could feel his chest expanding with the labour of his lungs in the dim quiet of the pantry, and she brought her arms around his neck, fingertips painting soft strokes over the back of his shaven head as they stood this way, immersed in simple, shared warmth for a time.

  The still hum of desire in the room and the press of their bodies was making Brigit restless now. Without thought, her hips shifted, rolling against the cook. Through her skirts and petticoats she felt him, hard as stone, and he mumbled a low curse when the firm rise of her mound nudged at him through the fabric.