Page 52 of The Sea Witch
His jaw tightened, and his chest rose and fell.
“Everythin’ all right in there, Cap’n?” a crew member asked on the other side of the door. “There was shoutin’ fit to make us think the ship was afire.”
Alys forced herself to take long, even breaths. Hell. She hadn’trealized she was yelling until that moment—and sheneverraised her voice except in the heat of battle.
“Everything is fine, Cora,” Alys answered, her gaze never leaving Ben’s. “A friendly chat.”
“Bit loud forfriendly,” Cora noted.
A corner of Ben’s lips quirked. Low enough so that only she could hear him, he said, “Herein lies the fault in such a democratic approach to seafaring.”
“I’d rather a crew member with a bit of sass than a cat-o’-nine-tails on my back, or a husband’s ring on my finger or a noose around my neck.” Louder for Cora, she added, “Back to your supper, Cora. There’s nothing here I can’t handle.”
“As you like, Cap’n.” Footsteps retreated in the passageway.
Alys and Ben continued to regard each other. Thank the trade winds she’d gotten back some of her poise. Fortunately, so had he. Pushed to the edge of his composure, he held an edge, a sharp gleam of possibility. What else might get him to unravel more? What would he look like... what would he do... when he did lose control?
“You’re confident that you canhandleme,” he noted.
“I’ve done a fine job of it so far.” She pushed past him, though he barely budged when she tried to jostle him out of the way. The contact of his solid shoulder with hers thrummed through her.
“Having me in irons hardly seems a fair assessment of how well you’d do against me in a one-on-one fight, cutlass against cutlass.”
“Trying to nettle me into freeing you, just for the sake of my vanity.” She shook her head.
“Men are vain. It stands to reason women are, too.”
At her desk, she took the key that hung from a cord around her neck and used it to unlock a drawer. Taking her logbook out, she set it atop her desk and also removed a quill and pot of ink, but then paused, debating.
“You claim you can wield a cutlass,” she said after a moment. “What’s your skill in wielding a pen?”
“I keep my own log that the captain and admiral review,” he answered. “And write correspondence for seamen that don’t know their letters.”
“Then you’re used to it, writing down what someone tells to you.”
He took a step toward her, his expression carefully neutral. “If there’s something you’d like me to transcribe for you, I can.”
“Stasia—she can speak English better than I can, but she wants to improve her ability to read and write it. To help her, it’s become our habit that I speak my captain’s log, and she writes it down.” Gruffly, Alys added, “I’m used to it now. Haven’t written my own log in close to a year. Nothing personal in it, but...”
Without speaking, he pulled a stool away from the table and set it in front of the desk. He flicked the full skirt of his coat out before sitting, then picked up the quill. It was surprising, how fluidly he could move, even with the shackles and manacles.
Ben hovered its nib over the waiting inkpot.
She drew in a breath, then opened the book to the next blank page, before sliding it toward him.
He dipped the nib into the ink and looked up at her expectantly.
“The Eighteenth of May,” she began, “1720.”
The nib scratched across the paper as he wrote with an exceptional hand, bold but elegant.
Once the date was inscribed, he glanced up at her again, waiting without judgment. Yet she wouldn’t unlock his manacles. Aboard this ship, he was still a prisoner. Still the enemy.
She couldn’t allow herself to forget that.
Chapter Twelve
“Luff sails,” the sailing master called out.
