Page 18 of Captive of the Pirate King
“It wasn’t terrible in the way you might think,” I say quietly. “But I was dying inside. And when my brother left, it felt like he took a piece of me with him. He and I were very close growing up. For a long time, I was the only one who knew his secrets, just like he knew mine.”
As I spread ointment over the deepest whip mark, Locke shifts, growling at the contact.
“Hold still,” I order.
“Remember your place, cabin boy,” he throws back.
I lay my palm against the back of his neck—a warm, firm pressure, something I used to do for Mordan when he was having one of his fits, or for Mother when she had a headache. The gesture usually has a calming effect.
And it works on Locke, too. He goes absolutely still.
“Why did you step in and take the punishment for me?” I whisper.
He curls one large hand around the edge of his pillow. It’s a stained, well-used piece of bedding, probably heavy with salt and sweat, but it looks pale in contrast with his tanned profile.
“I felt responsible,” he says. “And I know you’re shy with your body. I suspected having to strip in front of the entire crew might be difficult for you.”
“You risked your own secret, whatever it is,” I say. “You had to tell Mr. Hanschel what it was, didn’t you? He saw your back, uncovered. He had such a strange reaction—"
Locke cuts in. “What secrets did you and your brother share?”
I narrow my eyes and press more firmly on his flesh, and he yelps with pain.
“Don’t be such a baby. Sit up so I can bandage you properly.”
He sits up, half bent so as not to strike his head on the bunk above him.
Frowning, I survey his position. “That’s not going to work. Stand up and lift your arms a bit, if you can.”
Grimacing, he rises, clutching the bunk frame for support. I slip a length of bandage around his torso, wrapping as carefully as I can. To do this right, I have to stand very close to him. With each fresh loop of the cloth under his arms and across his back, my face is nearly pressed to his chest.
I inhale his scent—the metallic bitterness of blood, the brisk sharp tang of the sea, salty sweat laced with soap, and a spicy male fragrance beneath it all. If I could bottle that scent, I would take a whiff every morning. Hell, I would probably never stop sniffing it.
Finally I fasten the bandage at the front, tying and tucking the ends. My face burns as my knuckles brush Locke’s smooth skin. His body is trembling with pain and with the effort of staying upright.
“You can lie down again now,” I say. “How long will they let you rest?”
“Not long.” He settles himself onto the bunk, on his stomach, with his legs hanging half off the thin mattress. His uncovered eye closes. “I’ll be expected to work in spite of the wounds.”
Gingerly I touch his shoulder. He flinches at first, then sighs, relaxing into the contact.
“I think you saved my life today,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
“You’ll pay me back with secrets,” he mumbles. The flask hangs loose in his fingers, so I take it gently away.
Leaving Locke to sleep, I return to the galley and put away the items I borrowed. Cook is at the table, eyeing jars of spices and noting down the amount left in each. He keeps precise records of everything, all the supplies in his charge.
“Sit ye down, lad.” His sharp gray eyes are like steel blades under those bristly gray brows. He tucks two thin fingers into a shallow vest pocket and pulls out a small object, setting it on the table. “I found this on the floor this morning.”
I nearly choke on my own spit. It’s my family ring, the one I tucked into my breast bindings the day I was captured. I’d forgotten it was there. It must have fallen out when I unwrapped myself to bathe—I was so nervous, so distracted with Locke—I never noticed that I lost it.
My gaze snaps up to Cook’s, and I see the awareness in his eyes. He already knows it’s mine.
13
Cook runs a finger over the golden curve of my family ring.
“A pretty thing, this,” he says. “I’d wager it belongs to a high-born family of some kingdom or other. Any man or boy in possession of this trinket should keep it close, wouldn’t you say? There’s some on board as would take it amiss to have a courtly type among us. We’re not friends to any of the seven kings, you know.”
