Page 43 of Crossbones
In the morning the winds are calm
And the waters they glisten with the rising sun
The captain says, "All men on deck"
"There's a day's work to be done"
We climb the rails, and we hit the decks
We've reached the fishing grounds at last
We work the day and hear the captain say
"There's a wind storm comin’ up fast"
The crew joins me as I sing the chorus again and I watch Blackwell disappear below deck. Together the crew helps me finish the song and afterwards there’s cheers, laughter and pleas for more. I decline gracefully and leave them to their evening. Before I can really decide on a destination, I find myself standing outside of Blackwell’s cabin. The door isn’t all the way closed, so I shove it open and stroll in. Blackwell is sitting in his chair behind his desk, sipping rum, his perpetual scowl on his face.
He looks up as I enter. “Usually it’s polite to knock.”
I pour myself a glass of rum and plop down on the cushioned bench beneath the window. The room is warmly lit by a few lanterns but the shadowsare deep, flickering across old charts and rum bottles.
“This is hardly polite society.” I regard him over the top of my glass. “Especially since the last time I was sitting here I was in chains.”
I count it as a win when his scowl lightens and his lip twitches, barely. I cross my ankle over my knee and throw my arm across the back of the bench.
“No socializing for you tonight?”
“The men don’t need the Captain ruining their fun.” He doesn’t seem at all bothered by that as he sips his rum.
“Right. God forbid they see you smile,” I tease. “Do you even know how?”
“I can smile,” he grumbles.
“Maybe someday I’ll do something worthy of one.” I realize how flirty the undertone of that sounded but Blackwell doesn’t bite. He throws his boots up on his desk and rests his chin in his hand.
“You can sing really well.”
The compliment catches me off guard but the praise lands on me like a caress.
“I don’t do it often,” I admit.
“Why?”
“Same reason I suppose—the men don’t need the Captain ruining their fun.”
“You don’t sing at home?”
I scoff. “No,” I say flatly. “Definitely not.”
He wants to ask. I can feel it. But instead he downs the last bit of his rum and reaches for the bottle. The silence slips deeper, broken only by the slosh of alcohol in his glass. His movements are deliberate, unhurried and methodical as he stops the bottle and sits back again. His eyes catch the gleam of the dancing flame, and I have to suppress a shiver at the predatory look he’s giving me.
“Truth for a truth,” he states.
A slow grin slides across my features. I throw back the last of my own drink, studying him. I nod once as I get up to refill my glass, grabbing the bottle near his boots. I glance at him briefly before I focus on pouring.
“Would you have killed me?”
Blackwell watches me fill my glass and waits until I’m seated and settled again on the bench.
