The Pirate Captain

CHAPTER 10: Devil’s in the Details

Cate woke to the rumble of thunder. Snuggling deeper under the quilt, she listened to it reverberate across the water, and then the intermittent patter of raindrops. Hermione gave a plaintive bleat, taking rain as a personal affront. A freshened gust heeled the ship over. The shower grew to a downpour, drumming the deck overhead. Someone in the salon slammed the windows shut.

Nathan had been puzzled by her preference for them to be open. He pointed out, in barely camouflaged impatience, that the wind that came through the windows was the same as what blew through the door, making one or the other superfluous.

“Is there some tariff on open windows?” she had asked.

Muttering darkly under his breath about females and the parts of various animals, he stalked out, leaving her to her precious air.

A storm-driven puff delivered a fine mist through the port. As she considered waiting, the influx increased. Sighing in resignation, she rose to close it. From the corner of her eye, she saw the reddish brown blur of a rat scampering along the wall and under the curtain. She was stepping into her skirt when she heard the padded rustle of His Lordship in hot pursuit: a startled squeal, a furry scuffle, and then silence. As she combed her fingers through her hair, the heady aroma of coffee and baking scones met her nose.

Home!

Rounding the curtain, Cate caught Jensen setting a steaming pot and cup on the table.

“Joy o’ the morning, sir,” he beamed. She winced at his enthusiasm and wondered in his wake, if that shining face ever met a day with anything less.

Mindful of the peril of the first sip, she bent over the cup to inhale the curls of steam.

“Oh, you’ve risen, finally.” Nathan stood in the doorway against a pounding backdrop of rain. He shook off like a great dog in a spray of droplets. He slogged across the room with a somewhat stiffened step.

“You’re soaking wet,” she said.

Nathan stopped in mid-step to peer down at himself and gave her a queer look.

“Aye. You know it’s raining out there, don’t you?” He jerked a thumb first toward the door, and then jabbed a finger at the cup before her. “Or hadn’t you had enough of that to be able to notice yet?”

“I’m not that dense of a morning,” Cate pouted, hovering over the very same.

“’Tis all in the eye of the beholder, darling,” Nathan said with a mirthless laugh.

A soggy squish marked each step as he came round the table. Rain, glistening in the sable chest hair, plastered his shirt to his chest, the tattoo over his heart ghosting through the wet linen.

“Do you want a towel?” she asked.

“Eh?”

“A towel? So you might dry off?”

Water pattered the rug. Nathan shrugged her off with a reproving glance. “If a man can’t bear to be as wet as Neptune, he’s no business at sea. Besides, bear an eye: ’tis clean.” He plucked at the shoulder of his shirt.

She eyed the bloodstains, now brown, but faded. “Almost.”

“Almost enough.”

The downpour outside stopped, the sun breaking free in almost the same instant. A sultry warmth wafted through the cabin, stirring the tails of Nathan’s scarf about his shoulders. Sipping her coffee, Cate watched him ruffle through the clutter of papers, logbooks, and charts. Like his shirt, Nathan looked only marginally better than yesterday. The bruises were predictably more discolored, but were no larger, the swelling lessened.

A game of eye tag ensued: glancing, looking away only to glance again. Groping for something to break the tension, Cate put down the cup and asked, “How’s your head?”

Said body part jerked up. “What?”

Noting that was the second time Nathan had been either hard of hearing or forgetful, Cate rose and rounded the table.

“Your head,” she said. “You do recall being hit in the head yesterday, don’t you?” Hard enough to “bring him down,” as Nathan had so eloquently put it, there was the possibility he was injured far worse.

“Of course. I’m not daft.” Nathan ducked his head and batted her away when she reached to investigate. “I’m fine: rosy-cheeked, right as rain, in the pink, contentedly and serenely, in full feather, fine!”

Conceding—at that point, if he bled to death she didn’t care—Cate returned to her chair. The mood in the room being no better, she tried a different tactic.

“Where are we headed?”

Nathan looked up and there it was again: scorn and suspicion, the same as seen in the bedchamber at Lady Bart’s.

“Wondering as to what shall be awaiting upon our arrival?” His inquiry came with far too much edge to be comfortable.

“Are you implying I would play part to playing you the fool?”

His features so distorted by the swelling, Nathan’s smile was nearer a sneer. “No, I don’t imagine you that diabolical, but His Courtliness is. There’s every possibility he played you the fool.”

“But he thought I was trying to escape—”

“And you did nothing to change that opinion, did you? Pillow talk can be very persuasive. No matter, luv,” Nathan went on, cutting off her incensed sputtering. “Your beloved’s plotting is all for naught. If as you say, Lord Creswicke’s betrothed is on her way, then there’s only one course to be had. We will be waiting, but not where Commodore Vaingloriousness shall expect. ’Tis a fair anchorage, with a good view.”

Cate forbore asking “A view of what?” It didn’t go unnoticed that he elaborated no further. He resumed rifling the charts and papers, while she tried to decide if his churlishness was intentional, or if he was just having a bad morning. The former won.

“You’re angry with me, aren’t you?” she blurted. Her mother had admonished her often for her lack of modesty, but anything was better than this insufferable cat-and-mouse. It was hardly a shot in the dark, however.

The dark eyes came up, measuring. Twisting his jaw sideways, Nathan toyed with a corner of a chart. “Mebbe.”

From high above outside came a desperate cry. Cate was instantly to her feet and behind Nathan speeding for the door. She heard the en masse gasp from all hands on deck. She reached the door in time to see a blur of a body fall. She heard the sickening thud of something like a hundred weight of wet meal landing. Nathan was several strides ahead of her. He spun to intercept her as she raced forward, stepping at the same time to block her view. Over his shoulder, she caught a glimpse of skewed limbs and a ragdoll-like form lying in a pool of glistening red. Ashen-faced, all hands converged over the grisly sight. Cate ducked one way and then another to see around Nathan, but was blocked by his body, while at the same time backing her away, until she stumbled over the coaming into the cabin.

She jerked away. “I’m not a child. Who was it?”

Nathan drew a shaky hand down the curve of his mustache and looked to the floor.

“Dammit, Nathan,” she said to the top of his head. “I know someone just…”

He looked up, his swollen features pinched with a combination of restrained grief and abject concern. His hand stirred, as if to reach for her, but then thought better.

“Jensen.”

It came in a barely recognizable rasp.

Like rusty cogs, Cate’s mind ground, trying to absorb what he had just said. “Who? But, how…? I mean… He was just…?”

She abandoned the thought, for both of them knew exactly how it happened, how quickly Fate could strike. Whether on a battlefield or on the deck of a ship, a man could be standing one moment and dead the next. Stray musket balls, lightning, seizures, falling trees…or a fall from the yards, Fate could have its way without notice and without explanation.

Cate must have stood quite stricken, for Nathan shook her as if waking her from a deep sleep. Chin quivering, she crumpled into his arms and sobbed. He held her, gently swaying and absorbing her feeble blows as she pounded his chest in tear-choked fits. She cried over the death of someone so young. She cried in frustration of the snuffing out of promise and unfulfilled hopes. She cried because, in a world so defined by violence, it was too cruel to see someone’s life taken so mundanely, no more than Death’s afterthought: “Oh yes, I meant to take him.” And yet, Death never made sense. God, the Devil, or whoever was in charge of such matters, worked on a string of logic no mortal could fathom.

At last drained, Cate was left sniffling and hiccoughing. An arm still about her shoulders to steady her, Nathan reached for an amber bottle.

“Drink up.” The words came gently enough, but bore the edge of a man expecting his commands to be heeded.

She ducked away, but finally succumbed under his persistence. He observed closely as she drank.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a querulous gasp.

“No worries, luv.” Nathan’s smile was meant to be encouraging, but faltered.

Sniffing loudly, she sputtered in embarrassment of an abundantly running nose.

“Here, blow.” He offered his sleeve.

“No, it will make a mess. Don’t you have a handkerchief?”

“Not that I’d find in a timely fashion. Mother Nature’s washroom is but through that door. Now, blow.”

Need overcoming discretion, she did, laughing unsteadily when he crossed his blackened eyes and missed her nose—first to one side and then the other—before dabbing it.

A preemptive cough broke them apart. Pryce, Hodder, and Pickford, captain of the maintop, filled the doorway, solemn and miserable. Nathan hesitated, uncertain as to whether it was wise to leave her. Swiping her eyes, she bid him away. He roughly herded the trio outside to what he deemed most likely out of earshot, a miscalculation, given his level of anger.

“What the goddamned hell was he doing up there?” came Nathan’s ragged voice.

Cate flinched at his vehemence, pitying anyone in its path.

“Sweet suffering Jesus! What muddle-headed ass sent a lad, who can barely manage the companionway without stumbling over himself, to the tops?”

“He’s a fair eye,” said Pickford, defensively.

“He begged leave to prove himself, desirin’ to join the topsmen. So we…I let bid him as lookout,” Hodder interjected, even more wretched.

“T’was by my leave, Cap’n,” Pryce said in low-voiced solemnity. “I been denyin’ ’im for a fortnight. I finally…give in,” he added bleakly.

“Out o’ me sight, the lot o’ ya’s. By the tail o’ Satan, a sorrier lot I’ve never laid eyes on. Miserable excuse for command.” Nathan growled.

Nathan’s lashing out was unfortunate. Cate’s heart broke for all, but Pryce especially. Blame would abound all around, but Pryce cared for his charges as a father for his children. Jensen had held a special place in everyone’s heart, but Pryce would take this loss as personal.

“No, hold off,” Nathan said on the heels of his outburst. There was a tense pause. “Out of line, I am, as you’ll all agree, I dare say. You did no different than what’s done a dozen times a day, and then some. Go make your peace with your makers, mates, for you’ll punish yourselves far longer and draw more blood than I. I beg your leave. We’re all a bit…”

His apology died in a flood of effusive deprecations and apologies.

Nathan came back in. His step slowed at seeing Cate. He grimaced, conceding that no one was above being affected.

“Jen…” Her throat caught, rendering her unable to utter the name. “He’ll need to be washed…prepared for…” she said, her mind groping for a solid thought.

Nathan’s grip was firm as he corralled toward the sleeping quarters. “No, you shan’t go down there. Allow his mates; they’ll be in need of doing something for him.”

“Nathan, please, I need to—”

“No.” He gave her a gentle admonishing shake as he pressed her back. “Now, you’re to go in there and…and…rest,” he said, wishing he to have found a better word.

“But you can’t expect me to just…?”

Nathan’s brows arched, for that was exactly what he expected. As he pushed Cate around the curtain, the blunt truth was, other than pacing the salon like a caged cat, there was blessed little else for her to do.

She stood on the canvas rug gazing at the bulkhead, when she heard a solid rap on the doorframe. She turned to see a beringed hand poking around the curtain, clutching a brandy bottle by the neck. The scabbed and tattooed knuckles identified the perpetrator, if there had been any doubt.

“Here!” came a muffled voice. The disembodied fist thrust further forward. “Finish this, or don’t come out.”

Cate took the bottle and a warning finger jabbed at her. “I mean it!”

Clutching it to her chest, she leaned against the bulkhead. “Thank you, Nathan.”

The scuff of a boot and creak of leather belied his nearness. “You’re welcome, luv.”

And then the boots moved away.

She shook the bottle, testing for fullness, and sighed. “Finished” was probably not to be managed; “more empty” might be attainable. In that spirit, she took another sip.

And so wait she did, for wait was all she had.

Through Hodder’s bellow of “Swabbers!,” the thump of pumps and sluice of water as Jensen’s blood was washed away, and then the slap of the decks being flogged dry, the watch bells rang…and rang again…and again…and again…

The port was closed, the cabin dark and stuffy. The walls began to press, the space becoming too much like a casket. Cate threw the port open and drew in several deep draughts, but it didn’t erase the bone-chilling loneliness, the likes of which she hadn’t suffered in a very long time. The room being more threatening than the prospect of facing Nathan’s displeasure at being disobeyed, she left.

Seated at the table, log book and ink before him, Nathan glanced up at Cate’s appearance. His brows drew down in disapproval, but he said nothing. She sat while he wrote, his puffed mouth pulled up in a grim tilt. She remained quiet in respect of his task: just as he was obligated to enter the joyful news of marriage or birth, death also had its place in the log.

“Beg pardon, Cap’n?” It was Smalley at the door. Shifting on his stork-like legs, he knuckled his forehead “At your leave, sir.”

Newly shaved cheeks gleaming, Nathan sat motionless then lowered the pen, capped the ink and sanded the page. Closing the volume with a muffled thud, he stared at the leather binding, his fingers pensively fondling the worn edge.

“Are you ready?” he asked, finally looking up. His voice was thickened by lack of use.

Gulping, Cate nodded.

Nathan donned his coat, settled his hat on his head, and offered his arm. He walked with a firm enough step, but then slowed, stalling just short of the door. Gathered like a congregation awaiting its minister, the men’s heads turned at his appearance.

Cate touched him on the arm, and whispered, “Nathan?”

Droplets of sweat glistening in his mustache, his mouth twitched. Moving to block the view of the on-looking crew, she shook him by the arm.

“Nathan? Nathan!” she hissed.

He jerked as if woken from a dream and scowled. “Are you all right, luv?”

“I could ask you the same thing. Where were you just now?”

“Must be your imagination, darling, I’ve been right here.” He dismissed her with a wave.

“You were staring as if you were…somewhere else.”

Nathan drew back to regard her as if she was deranged. “No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you—”

Cate was cut off by Nathan abruptly turning to a desk near the door. He scrambled through its contents, until a scrap of paper was found. At the table, he took a long pull from the bottle, then dipped the quill and briefly scratched. Bracing his hands on the table, he contemplated the scrap, and then with a nod, as if concluding a conversation, he tucked it into his coat pocket. Straightening himself, he took another drink and returned to her side.

Worry creased his bruised features as he looked closely at hers. “Are you ready? Can you do this?”

“I think so,” she stammered, thoroughly befuddled by the performance.

Nathan took Cate by the arm, swayed, set his jaw and strode out.

The crew parted to allow them through. Cate sagged at the sight of the canvas-wrapped bundle laid out on a boarding plank, feet first at the gunwale, and the four reverent men standing with it. A hush fell as Nathan drew up at the head of the still form. Seeming to perceive the gravity of the moment, the Morganse quieted.

The entire company was turned out, those on duty stepping away from their post to join the tight gathering. Pryce stood on the quarterdeck, solemnly looking down, Hodder on the helm. Amid nervous coughs, murmurs and shifting, everyone doffed their hats when Nathan cleared his throat.

Standing next to Nathan, Cate didn’t know where to look. Certainly not at the canvas-wrapped form directly before her—her mind playing too many tricks—she found a neutral place, between her feet and Squidge’s next to her.

Nathan gazed at Jensen’s body for several contemplative moments.

“Men, we’ve an unpleasant business before us,” he began. “It strikes one as improbable that something so natural and necessary, so universal as death, should have been labeled by Providence as an evil upon mankind, but there ’tis. Some of us have been visited upon by the ultimate conclusion, caught between here and there, there and here. Bloody unpleasant business. But now, the sands of time have run out for young Jensen, here.”

His gaze still fixed on Jensen, his mouth drew down.

“If, as we’ve oft been told, the good die young, then we’ve proof before us. That being said, it bodes ill for those of us still here, who have seen the dawn of more days than we care to contemplate.”

A few men nodded, conceding the point. Pirates to the man, “good” was not the first word to mind. Perhaps living was the curse of the bad.

“Ever notice, men, how the graveyard always surrounds the church? One message there, mates: none of us are getting out of here alive.”

A titter of nervous chuckle came from the group. The sun crowning their bent heads, their faces hidden, sporadic sniffing could be heard amid a cough or clearing of a throat. Nathan stood solid and square, as a captain should, his ragged voice uncommonly clear. Cate was so very grateful for his presence, and thought the feeling might be mutual.

“In a dozen different languages, in a dozen different ways, in anticipation and promise of a dozen different heavens, we are told to live our lives as best we can. All things considered, given where we all stand this moment, I think not. Nothing brings that to bear so quickly as the passing of someone so young.”

Cate felt the weight of being watched, and looked up into Nathan’s eyes, soft and umber through the swollen slits.

“It’s been a lesson to us all, men: Mother Time will not forever favor us. Let that be a lesson to us all,” Nathan ended, his gaze falling away.

He fell quiet, to the point she thought perhaps he had finished.

“Tonight we will all examine our lives. Can’t be helped, all things considered. Dreams, wishes, hopes, ambitions, regrets, remorse, guilt, and failure: we all must be prepared to face them, one by one, in our own solitudes, of course, with the pledge to do better. Jensen, however, was too young to be burdened with sins. His life exemplified to all of us what is young and good. Rest assured, his place in his version of heaven is reserved. Thank you, Jensen, for showing us the error of our ways. Let that be his message to us all.”

Suddenly so very pale under his bronze, Nathan fished out the piece of paper from his coat and stuffed it into a seam of the canvas bundle. “He’s in your hands now, Davy Jones. May it be brief.”

Nathan closed his eyes and nodded. The end of the board was lifted and young Jensen slid away, commended to the sea.



###



It was well after dark. Cate had been sitting on the forecastle since the end of the service, lacking the will to move elsewhere.

After the service, an uncommon silence had befallen the ship. All had witnessed death before; life at sea was harsh and cruel, the ending of a life abruptly commonplace. To walk away, however, would be a final stamp on Jensen’s passing; to linger was to keep his memory alive that bit longer. She cringed at the sound of the auction at the mainmast, though considerably lower-voiced than was usual. The bidding was solemn but intent, everyone striving to gain a memento of the lad.

In her own way, Cate made her farewell, as she had done too many times before. With her head cradled in her arms, she watched the sea, each wave another soul passing. She tried to recall the last time she had celebrated the arrival of life into this world, a dim memory at best. It was odd how death seemed so much more prevalent than birth. How did Man ever continue to prevail with such statistics?

She recognized Nathan’s step well before he mounted the forecastle. He drew to a halt beside the stack of boxes, and set a plate of scones and dried apples next to her.

He cleared his throat and forced a smile. “You haven’t eaten all day. Kirkland is near apoplectic with worry.”

“Have you…eaten?”

Nathan shook his head, looking at his feet. “No, lost me appetite somewhere along the way, today. Oh, and here.” He fished into his belt and dropped something in her hand: a small, ebony-handled pocketknife.

“I got it in the auction. It’s the one he used to carve your little needle case. I thought you might fancy something of him.”

Nathan was, of course, referring to the present Jensen had given her, carved from a piece of salt horse. The backs of Cate's eyes knotted. She had indeed longed to have something of the boy’s, but it was too ghoulish to bid for it, and so soon after. She thanked him kindly.

As Nathan shifted on his feet, looking off first one way and then another, it occurred to her that the plate, Kirkland, or the knife were but excuses. Cate slid the plate nearer and patted the wood next to her. “Come share, then.”

He gingerly sat at the furthest corner. Breaking a scone, she passed him half. Each regarded their portion with the same half-hearted enthusiasm. In the spirit of placating the other, they picked off small bits, chewing without tasting.

They were quiet for a time, distracted by their own thoughts. A few times, Nathan took a breath, preparing to say something, but then lapsed back into his own council.

“What was in the note?” Cate finally asked.

Nathan’s head jerked up. “Eh?”

“The note, the piece of paper you put into Jensen’s…” Her throat tightened, unable to utter the word “shroud.”

“Oh, that.” His fingers arced a dismissive dance. “Nothing, just a little something.”

“Nathan,” she said, sounding far more maternal than she cared.

Nathan flinched. Cate knew he was being less than truthful, and he knew she knew. Snurling his nose at the morsel in his hand, he dropped it on the plate.

“A word,” he said, dusting his fingers off, “to Jones. Jensen was a good man and deserves a good end.”

“Jones? Davy Jones? I had heard the legends, but I thought they were just that: legends.” Superstition was so deeply interwoven into the lives of mariners, it was blessedly difficult to fray wild imaginings from reality, and yet the least rational seemed the most popular.

“’Tis no legend here, darling,” Nathan said tolerantly. “’Tis as real as the lad’s body we just commended to him.”

He shuddered and looked off, disinclined to elaborate.

“No matter how fervently we like to pretend otherwise, death scares us all,” Cate said at length. She knew it sounded trite and cavalier, but as he had suggested during the service, on such a night, how could they think of anything else?

He grinned. “And the graveyard is always outside the church.”

“Brian used to say, ‘Death begat the believer.’ The most pious are often the ones to pray the hardest at the end.”

Cocking one eyebrow, he regarded her approvingly. “You’ve seen it all, haven’t you?”

“Enough.” It was a simple admission, without the intent to brag; surely he had seen far worse. “Enough to know when your time comes, it comes. There’s no stopping it and there’s no denying it.”

The heel of Nathan’s boot rapped an idle tattoo against the wooden seat. “Never really thought about it; never really thought me time would ever come.”

“Charmed?”

He smiled. His bells tinkled as he lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “Mum claimed as much.”

Nathan rose and went to the rail. He toyed with a ring. “For a moment there, I didn’t think I was going to be able to send the poor lad off.”

“But you did,” Cate said, moving next to him.

He reluctantly nodded and looked away. “Aye, the lad deserved his peace. There’s nothing for which Jones should punish him.”

“And you?”

His head jerked up, looking to the night’s sea.

He chuckled, more for her benefit than his own. “No worries, luv. I’ve made me peace. The rest is in Fate’s hands; I can only hope she’s a gentle mistress.”

They fell quiet again, elbows touching as they watched the black silk water roll past. Turmoil chewed at her gut. Cate had made a pledge in Lady Bart’s garden and it had dragged at her since. Their heated exchange the night before and Nathan’s churlishness that morning rendered it that much more pressing. The matter paled against Jensen’s passing, but the death had left her in desperate need of peace. She took a breath. Knowing exactly what she meant to say, her courage still faded. Balling a fist, she plunged ahead.

“Nathan, when this is all over,” Cate began, already regretting having started, “with Creswicke’s fiancée and all, I was wondering…if it would be at all possible…if I could…leave?”

Her query was punctuated by an expulsion of air. The worst was over; she had said it. Nathan nodded interestedly at first, but his expression clouded.

“Why?” His intent was to sound casual, but his voice caught. “Is this to do with Jensen?”

“No, it’s nothing about him at all. It’s something I’ve been thinking about… for a little while.”

Nathan bent to peer into her face. “Did someone bother you?

Only you, she wanted to say. Only you, because I can't bear to be around anymore, if it's always to be like this.

“No, no,” she said, with an emphatic shake of her head. “It's just that…that…”

It wasn’t going anywhere near the way she had hoped. And yet, it wouldn’t have come as a surprise, if Nathan hadn’t put up some kind of resistance. Deep down, she didn’t believe he would force her to remain. But then, if he saw this as an attempt for her to return to Harte, it could go quite badly.

“It’s just, I can't stay on a ship forever. I need a home; I need to start taking care of myself, again…somehow,” Cate said.

“You don't like it here?” Nathan asked dully.

“Oh, I do!” She hoped her earnestness didn’t come across as artificial. She ground her palm against the rail. “I was thinking I should start somewhere, to make a life again.”

Cate buried her face in her hands at realizing what a hash she was making of it.

“Certainly,” Nathan murmured as he straightened, adding more emphatically, “Of course.”

“I need to be not so dependent.” God, that sounded whining! “I need to be able to make my own way.”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know. Sewing, maybe.”

His fist curled at the hilt of his sword. “I will not have you wind up destitute, in some goddamned hellhole somewhere, doing God knows what in order to eat!”

Nathan drew back, visibly collecting himself. “No, you’re correct: a ship is no place for a woman.”

“I’ll buy you a house,” Nathan said at last, sounding more like he sought to convince himself. “I've wanted you to have something…anything you desired. You've done a lot for the crew, healing and all; we owe you that much, at least.”

“No, Nathan, it can’t be like that. That would be trading one dependency for another.”

The black dashes of his brows nearly touched. “Dependent! How can you possibly think you’re dependent?” He gestured toward the crew and the ship behind him. “You’ve mended their wounds, sewn their skin, soothed their fevers, set their bones, lanced their boils and heard their confessions. If anything, they’ve become dependent on you.”

Snorting indignantly, Nathan began to pace in short agitated circuits. “They made you a member of this crew. You do your part and contribute your fair share.”

“I know, but I’ve made a promise to myself.”

Nathan fought off a smile. “Most promises are made to be broken.”

He braced against the rail, his knuckles white against the ebony. Head hanging between his arms, his back rose and fell with each breath. Cate wouldn’t have been surprised if he had just looked up, said “no,” and walked away.

“Is it me?” he asked, barely audible. He peered up over his arm, and then back down, kicking a toe at the planks. “I know I can be…grating, betimes…so I may have been told…maybe…a time or two,” he ended awkwardly.

“No, Nathan, it's not—”

“It is, isn’t it? I can change.” Nathan straightened, his swollen eyes narrowing in determination. “I know I came in on you that night, and I shouldn't have. I promise it shan’t happen again.”

“That's not it at all. It's just—”

“Go in that cabin,” he said, his vehemence building. “You draw a line anywhere on that floor anywhere, and I swear, it shan’t be crossed. Better yet, you take the whole cabin. I'll move the charts, the logs, everything, the entire space will be yours, I'll…” he said with an emphatic swipe.

Nathan’s words came faster and faster, the bruised eyes rounding in desperation. Unable to get a word in edgewise, she finally silenced him with her fingers to his lips.

“It's not you or anything you've done.”

“Then stay.” Gulping, his brows tilted hopefully. “The men want you. Hell, even the Morganse wants you.”

“The Morganse has no idea—“

“Yes, she does! I can tell. Anyone can. Look how she sails when you’re aboard!” His fingers arced toward the sails.

“It’s a charming thought—and I’m flattered—but I don’t think so.”

His jaw set and he sobered. “Then what will it require?”

Uncertainty wracked her. It would be folly to think this wasn’t another of his gambits, toying with her again. In the weeks that she had known him, she had seen him go through a number of personas, but never pleading or humble.

Unnerved by Cate’s hesitation, Nathan grew dark and accusing. “You’re a hard woman, Cate Mackenzie. They’ve taken you in, given you a place to belong, brought you into their hearts, and then you walk away. Is that all the gratitude they get? Is this how a friend shows gratitude?” He nearly spit the word.

“Is that what you want?” she asked in a thin rasp, hurt tightening her throat. “Gratitude?”

“I want what you want.” He inched closer, his mask of inscrutability now firmly in place. “And, if here is what you want, it would be what I want as well. But if you don’t want to be here, then my only advice would be to do as you want.”

He stood over her, as tightly wound as the tar-bound rigging behind him. The backs of her eyes knotted and they filled. Her chest constricted to the point where she couldn’t speak. He softened as he drew his own conclusions from her silence.

“You belong here.” Each word was uttered with singular emphasis, but the quaver in his voice diminished the intended effect. His throat moved as he swallowed. “Nowhere else, just here. Besides,” he added, the puffed mouth taking a wry twist, “put your mind to how dirty everything will be in your absence.”

He smiled, one of those gold-and-ivory ones, intended to charm…and it did.

Cate’s heart broke.

Independence had been her goal, for she knew the price of dependency: a dangerous commodity that could leave one devastated and bereft. With its burdens and pitfalls, dependence brought love, friendship, and camaraderie. Nathan was trying to say, in his own quirky, convoluted way, what she had dreamed of. It came, however, with a price: independence or him, with all the constraints he would impose, inviolate once the choice was made. It meant to be with him, so near and yet, so very far. There was nothing in between.

Here, among eight score of pirates, she had found everything she had longed for: someone to notice, someone to care if she lived or died, a place to belong, purpose… a home. She needed a friend, not a lover, no matter how much it tore at her to admit it. Nathan was all that and more.

If someone earlier had asked “What scared Nathan Blackthorne?” she would have been hard pressed to answer, and yet here he was before her, as mortally afraid as ever witnessed, terrorized by one thing: her answer. He couldn’t look up in fear of what he might see, and yet he did so anyway, to allow her a glimpse of his hope.

“Very well, Nathan,” she heard herself say. “I'll stay.”

She quaked as she bid farewell to one dream for another as Nathan made a victorious fist, closed his eyes and mouthed a fervent “Thank you.”

The watch bell clanged, drawing his attention aft.

“That will be me watch.” A hand drifted toward Cate's shoulder, hovered, and then dropped away. “I’d best be reporting; sets a poor example for the Captain to be derelict in his duties.”

Nathan hesitated, and then drew a length of cord from his pocket and dropped it in her lap. “You need practice.”

Watching as he sauntered away in his hitched gait, she thought perhaps a bit more spring could be detected. She smiled.

For all her denials, there was one glaring fact: she loved him, how deeply remained to be seen, but enough to know to walk away would be folly. A one-sided love was better than none at all. She had vowed never to settle for that, until faced with losing it. Nothing came without a price: hers was freedom, in order to be with someone who valued his even more. A home, exchanged for a racing heart and unending hope.

A part of her was relieved. Another was sickened, for that part knew all too well that, at any moment, the price of dependence could be visited upon her without so much as a warning whisper.

Could she ever survive it again?