Page 21 of The Sea Witch
How was it possible that Strickland had actually workedwitha pirate? No one dealt as harshly with buccaneers as the admiral. Few of the pirates he captured ever made it to Port Royal for trial. In the five years Ben had served on theJupiter, he’d witnessed the execution of scores of buccaneers, all at Strickland’s orders.
Many others had been killed by the leviathan. The destruction of theDiaboliquewasn’t the first time Ben had witnessed the beast’s deadly power, but that didn’t stop a shudder from working its way along his spine as the terrified pirates’ screams echoed through his mind. There was no honor in ridding the world of buccaneers, not that way.
Strickland had swallowed his ethos long enough to collaborate with an infamous pirate. Yet it was to create a weaponagainstpirates.
Ben winced as contradictions battered against the inside of his skull.
Steps sounded in the passageway, and the woman with the Mediterranean accent appeared at the entrance to the brig. She had a profile as noble and strong as any ship of the line. A black-and-white magpie perched on her shoulder, chirping lowly. The woman shot Ben a glower before turning to the guard.
“Captain wants to see him, Dayanna. Has he been giving you trouble?”
“Trying to worm intelligence from me.” Dayanna handed the Greek woman a ring of keys that glowed with magic. “But that tree bears no fruit.”
“That is why we trust you with the keys,” the other woman said with a small smile. She inserted a key into the lock, and the glow vanished from the bars.
He could try to flee now—but he wouldn’t get far.
The bird on the woman’s shoulder flapped its wings. Once the door to the brig swung open, she snapped her fingers at Ben. “Up, malákas.”
Whatever that word meant, it wasn’t good.
Standing whilst bound at the wrists and ankles wasn’t easily managed. Yet he struggled to his feet and shuffled after the Greek woman as she led him through a passageway, which was neat and orderly, up a well-maintained companionway—even more difficult with the shackles at his ankles—and then down another corridor, until she stopped outside a door and knocked.
“I have brought the pútsos,” she said when a voice within bid her to enter.
“It’s Sailing Master Priestley or Mr. Priestley,” he reminded the Greek woman.
She leveled him with an indifferent look before shoving him inside.
Between the hard push and the bindings around his ankles, he stumbled forward, landing uncomfortably on his knees.
“That’s how a man is supposed to approach a woman,” came a wry feminine voice.
His gaze landed on the toes of a pair of boots, and then went higher, roaming up the thigh-high boots, along feminine thighs and hips encased in snug breeches, up over a leather tunic secured with a wide belt, going higher still until he beheld Alys Tanner’s face, looking down at him with a mixture of contempt and amusement. She’d taken a kerchief of bright green silk and wrapped it around her head, and the color was striking against the red hue of her unbound hair.
“Speaking boldly to someone who’s bound isn’t an indicator of courage,” he answered as best he could with a dry mouth.
She tipped back her head and laughed. It was a husky, plush sound, resonating with far more maturity than someone of her young years usually held.
“Provoking me into freeing you is a strategy that might work with a less secure person.” She placed her fingertip beneath his chin and lifted it, so that their gazes met. “I’ve nothing to prove—to you or anyone.”
“A woman in command of her own ship has much to prove.”
“Men think women need to show how much they deserve something.” Her finger stroked back and forth along his jaw. “When they themselves take whatever they want without considering whether or not they merit it. Most of the time, they don’t.”
Their gazes held, and a peculiar shiver moved through him, hot and cold at the same time. It must be some kind of enchantment she’d tried to place on him.
She leaned down, her warm rum-scented breath feathering over him, before she grabbed his manacles and hauled him up to standing. “Time to earn your keep, Sailing Master. Tell me about Little George.”
“All I know of George Partridge is what’s found in any broadsheet.” He tried to follow as best he could as she pulledhim toward a table laden with charts. “As a fellow pirate, surely you have a better familiarity with him than I.”
He glanced around the cabin. It wasn’t as large as Admiral Strickland’s quarters on theJupiter, but it was sizeable enough to hold a carved dresser of walnut, a rosewood desk inlaid with mother of pearl that had surely been taken off a captured ship, a mahogany table laden with charts, and a narrow berth that was covered with gold-and-blue-patterned silk. There was a slight dent in the pillow, where Alys Tanner laid her head every night.
He ripped his gaze away from the bed to stare at the table full of maps.
“I’m giving you an opportunity,” she said, “which men seldom deserve. Otherwise, we’ll see how well you swim in irons.”
Ben kept silent.
