by Sara Reinke
* * *
Rafe had awakened with what was, without question, the most miserable headache he had ever suffered. His head throbbed as if battalions of miniature men took positions within his skull and proceeded to set against his brain with mallets. His mouth felt dry and wasted, as though he had slept with wads of linen crammed between his cheeks. His eyes felt tacky and sticky, his entire body leaden and stiff.
Why in the name of God did I drink so much? he thought, propped at the table before a plate of poached eggs, orange slices and salted meat. The aroma of the food, which he might have normally found appealing, seemed to keep his stomach turning in lazy circles that morning. There was no escaping the smell, however, or the table. Catherine wanted to eat; she gobbled mouthful after eager, hearty mouthful, in fact, and because he was cuffed to her side, he was fairly well trapped for the moment with breakfast.
He closed his eyes, in part because he hoped that if he did not have to look at the food, his nausea would settle somewhat. He also did not want to look at Catherine anymore. He had made the mistake of glancing over his shoulder at her as she had stood after using the chamber pot. He had caught a glimpse of her drawing the too-large circumference of his breeches’ waistband up over her hips―awarding him a fleeting but decidedly worthwhile glance at her thighs and buttocks. He had blinked at her long after her pants were again in place, momentarily befuddled by this tantalizing peek.
“I said not to watch,” Catherine had said, slapping him on the top of his head, snapping him from his reverie.
“I was not watching―stop that,” he had protested.
“Yes, you were. I heard your breathing stop. I am blind, you boor, not oblivious.”
He had also needed to use the chamber pot, the previous night’s wine having settled in an uncomfortable pool in his bladder. He had moved to take his turn, to unfetter the waistcord of his breeches, but Catherine had jerked abruptly against the chains, snatching his hand away from his groin.
“What are you doing?” she had gasped, her eyes flown wide, bright color blazing in her cheeks.
“I need to relieve myself, too,” he had replied. She had simply blinked at him, and he had sighed. “It is my turn to use the chamber pot.”
When he moved his hand toward his pants, she pulled it away again. “Use your other hand!” she exclaimed, breathless with aghast.
“I cannot,” he’d replied. “I need both to untie my breeches. Besides that, I am left-handed.”
The color in her cheeks grew even deeper, her eyes even wider. “Well, you…you cannot do that!” she said. “You will just have to find some other way.”
“We can stand here and argue about it,” he had told her patiently. “Or I can…how did you phrase it? Soak us both?”
She had relented, her face twisted with disgust, her hand held poised and immobilized between them as he had unfettered his pants and went about his business. The length of chain allowed her plenty of space to avoid his exposed manhood, but he had to admit, there was something tantalizing about her proximity. She could have touched him if she had wished, and he had been somewhat surprised when this notion had caused the stirrings of arousal in him.
Even now, nauseated as he was by the smell of breakfast and with his head pounding, the thought of her hand closing gently but firmly about him, moving with slow, deliberate friction made him begin to stiffen. He shifted his weight uncomfortably in his chair, hoping that fidgeting might somehow relieve the sudden strain against the front of his breeches.
“I would like to know how you propose removing these dreadful things from me,” Kitty said, that cool, annoyingly contemptuous edge to her voice immediately dissolving any fond thoughts he might have harbored of her stroking him to release. She gave the chains a little shake for emphasis, and he opened his eyes, wincing as the light pained him.
“You mean removing them from me,” he replied. “Since you seem so determined to make trouble, I may just have to continue employing them with you in some capacity.”
Her eyes flashed, her brows pinching at his challenge. “I beg your pardon for causing any difficulty for you as you hold me here against my will,” she said. “Do you think I have made this already unpleasant situation any more bearable to me with this?” Again, she gave her arm a demonstrative shake, this time, jostling his in the process. “How was I supposed to know the damn things did not have a key? Who keeps a pair of cuffs without a key aboard their ship, unless he has half a mind to use them? What was I supposed to think?”
His brows furrowed and he jerked his hand back making her knock over her tea cup. “You were not supposed to think anything!” he snapped. “You were not supposed to find them. Who told you to go snooping through my wardrobe―my personal possessions? These circumstances are not exactly as I would like them, either, but I have tried my best to demonstrate a modicum of courtesy where you are concerned―”
“Courtesy!” Catherine exclaimed hotly, tugging so hard against the chains that his hand swung upward unexpectedly, his knuckles banging loudly, painfully against the edge of the table top. He yelped, and the glasses and flatware all clattered noisily at the impact. “What courtesy have you shown me besides maybe preventing that monstrous crewman of yours from ravaging me? Do you think your little medicines and poultices constitute courtesy? You abducted me, you miserable rot―from my home, my bed, no less! You―”
“Tell me it is untrue!” Cristobal cried as he threw open the door and stormed into the room, startling both Rafe and Catherine. Cristobal’s dark eyes darted sharply from his brother to Catherine―and the measure of chains that had pulled taut between them in their mutual surprise―and his mouth hooked in a broad smile. He laughed out loud. “I will be damned, you stupid bastard. It is true, is it not?”
“Cristobal…” Rafe began, rising to his feet. Catherine recognized Cristobal’s voice; it was apparent from the sudden drain of color in her face, the sharp intake of her breath that she knew him. Her eyes were enormous with bright, sudden fear, and Rafe moved to stand in front of her.
Cristobal tried to march around Rafe to get a good look at Catherine and the chain, but Rafe countered his attempts by moving with him, keeping himself between Catherine and his brother. She caught fast hold of Rafe’s shirt and clung there, her fingers hooked fiercely as she shied against him.
“You stupid bastard,” Cristobal said again, grabbing hold of Rafe’s arm and trying to get a look at the cuffs. “How did it happen? Let me see, Rafe. Were you drunk? Did you forget Father did not have the key?”
Rafe angrily slapped his hand away from his sleeve and then gave his brother a shove that sent him stumbling backward on his hobbled gait. “Not now, Cristobal.”
“Not now?” Cristobal asked, his eyes wide, his mouth still turned up in a grin. “When, then, Rafe? When were you going to tell me about this? In Lisbon? Do you not think I might notice you keeping below all that while? Do you not think the crew might notice?”
“Who told you?” Rafe asked, his irritation mounting with Cristobal’s teasing. Rafe hadn’t told anyone but Claudio about what had happened; he had called the boatswain to his quarters prior to supper the night before. Claudio had simply shaken his head upon Rafe’s revelation, and crossed himself a number of times, as if he had been faced with the bane of the devil himself. He had sworn himself to silence on the matter, and given the older man’s generally dour consideration of Cristobal, Rafe doubted seriously that Claudio had confided in him.
“Eduardo,” Cristobal said. “He brought you supper last night and breakfast this morrow. He thought it odd that you kept so close to the English woman, near enough to hold hands. I thought it was odd that you kept below the night through. Granted, you’ve never been very interested in sea duties, not since Father shipped you off to the mainland all those years ago, but still―”
“What?” Rafe blinked. “That is not true, Cristobal.”
“Were you drunk? Did you take them out to scare her with them? Threaten her? I
told you we should―”
“No, I did not threaten her with them,” Rafe said, clapping his uncuffed hand on Cristobal’s shoulder and doing his best to steer his brother toward the doorway. Poor Catherine was frozen with fright behind Rafe, as rigid as a piece of statuary. It was like trying to lug a millstone toward the threshold as he moved to shove Cristobal out. “Cristobal, please. Just go back topside and find me a good, strong man, the strongest we have. We will need him and a mallet to break through these chains.”
“Break them?” Cristobal asked. He side-stepped around Rafe, clearly determined to stay. “Why would we do that?”
Rafe stared at him. “Are you mad?” he exclaimed, shaking his hand demonstratively, flapping Catherine’s about in the process. “I cannot go around like this!”
“Why not?” Cristobal replied. “It is perfect, Rafe―think about it.” He cut a glance toward Catherine and his smile slid all the wider. “I told you she would cause us trouble, and look, here, now she has.”
“Fair enough,” Rafe said. “You were right and I was wrong, Cristobal. There, I have admitted it. Can we now not―”
“If we turn her loose, she will only cause us more trouble,” Cristobal said.
“No, she will not,” Rafe said. “What more could she possibly find?”
“Who would have thought she would find those cuffs, what with the way she is?” Cristobal said. He waved his hand at Catherine’s face, her unwavering gaze.
He had a point. Again.
“Listen to me,” Cristobal said, stepping close enough to Rafe to place his hand on his brother’s sleeve, to speak quietly in his ear. “This is perfect. We could not have asked for more.”
“Yes, we could have,” Rafe assured him dryly.
“What better circumstances could we have found? Who better to make sure she keeps out of mischief than you, Rafe? If we keep the cuffs in place, she is always at your side, and never out of your sight. She can do nothing. She can cause us no more bother.”
Rafe glanced over his shoulder at Catherine. This was not an idea that had occurred to him.
“I will tell the crew you are guarding her personally,” Cristobal said. “That will spare your honor lest they learn of these ridiculous circumstances.”
“Thank you for that,” Rafe muttered.
“I will take charge of the ship,” Cristobal said. “You have told Claudio about this?” When Rafe nodded, he said, “Good. Then I will go to him and tell him of our arrangement. He and I can handle the crew, while you stay here and handle the girl.”
“Arrangement?” Rafe said. “Cristobal, I have not agreed to anything yet. I do not like this. What if word gets out anyway? Already, you said Eduardo is talking. I cannot―”
“If word gets out, you will be infamous, brother,” Cristobal told him, grinning broadly. “Who else but a pirate born and bred would think to tether himself to his own captive? You will become a legend―as great as Abdul Aziz bin Malik.”
Abdul Aziz bin Malik. The most renowned pirate in all of Spain, a Moorish hero among privateers and sailors worldwide and the man who had introduced their father into the trade.
“Terrific,” Rafe said, clapping his hand over his face and groaning.
“We are agreed, then?” Cristobal asked, tugging on his sleeve.
Rafe glanced at Catherine. How long a voyage is it to Lisbon? he thought, struggling to remember. My God, already I have wanted to throttle her at least twenty times this morning! I cannot last the rest of this day through, much less more to come!
“Excellent,” Cristobal said, even as Rafe hitched in a breath to protest. Without another word, Cristobal turned and walked away, ducking out the door.
“Cristobal…” Rafe began.
“This is for the best, Rafe,” Cristobal said, closing the door behind him.
“No―wait,” Rafe pleaded. He rested his forehead against the wood, heaving a deep, weary sigh. “Damn it.”
He turned and remembered Catherine was there, her pallor ashen, still cowered near to him, nearly paralyzed with fear. His expression softened and he reached for her. “Catherine…”
“Do not touch me,” she whispered, jerking back as his fingers brushed against her cheek. She swatted her hands blindly to ward off another such attempt, and the chain links between them rattled. She blinked toward Rafe’s face, her large eyes glassy with tears. “That was the man who tried to rape me.”
“Yes,” Rafe said, pierced and shamed by the sharp, accusatory glare in her eyes. “He is my younger brother, Cristobal.”
Her expression grew momentarily shocked, and then her gaze grew icy. “Oh,” she said, nodding, a sarcastic sound to accompany a sardonic gesture. She sniffled mightily to stave her tears and her brows furrowed. “What a surprise, that a misbegotten pirate like Evarado Serrano Pelayo had two boorish pirates for sons, and not just the one.”
“Catherine, I am not a pirate,” he said rather helplessly, for at least the hundredth time since their introduction. “I am―”
“I know what you are,” she snapped, slapping at him again, striking his arm as he reached for her. “You are the physician, the scholar of the lot, while your brother must be the sailor.”
Her tears spilled, despite her proud efforts to contain them. “No wonder your father sent you both to do his rotten work in his stead. Your brother is a cripple, and you are incompetent. Perhaps between the two of you, he thought you might see his vengeance through.”
Rafe’s abashment shifting toward aggravation. “I beg your pardon?”
“Why did your father put you in charge of this ship anyway? If you are a physician, you should be home with him, tending to his wounds.”
Aggravation yielded fully to anger, and Rafe caught her by the crook of the elbow, clamping his fingers tightly enough to make her wince.
“You are hurting me!” she hiccupped, wide-eyed with alarm.
“Good,” he replied, his brows furrowed as he leaned toward her, drawing nearly nose-to-nose. “You think I want to be in charge of this ship? Do you think I like what I have done?” He shoved her away from him, but there was no place to go now; no escape from her. He was bound to her until Lisbon, whether he liked it or not. He shook his arm mightily, frustrated with the chains, and uttered a hoarse, angry cry. “I would love to be home with my father, tending to his wounds, but unfortunately, there is no physician alive that can help him now.”
Catherine’s eyes widened in frightened, aghast realization.
“This is not my father’s vengeance,” Rafe told her. “It is Cristobal’s, and mine. Evarado Serrano Pelayo is dead. John Ransom―your father―murdered him.”
