Page 66 of Captive of the Pirate King
“I got out, though,” he says hoarsely. “My father—he was a good man. He’d saved and stolen everything he could for years, and finally he bought a tiny scrap of land, a bit of brittle rock that no one thought was worth anything. But he knew better. He understood rock and earth and ore, you see. Once he bought the land, I left the big mines and worked for him instead. We cut a shaft straight down, and there we found black diamonds, some as big as your fist, Nick. We chipped them out quietly, not telling a soul, and we used one to buy a ship. A whole ship. Ratty thing she was, and small, but to my father and my mother and me, she looked like a king’s crown. We sneaked our haul of diamonds aboard and we left that place behind.”
He swallows and clears his throat. “That was my very first ship. TheRaven’s Frenzy. My parents bought a cottage on a pretty little island where they could live out their days in peace, but I couldn’t stay there. I wanted to do more. I hated the seven kingdoms for taking all the resources of Caligo yet paying such ridiculously low prices for its minerals. The people in those kingdoms used our exports without caringhowthe prices were kept so low, without a thought to the working conditions of the miners. I was sixteen then, an idealist, and I thought I could change the world in my own way. So with theRaven’s Frenzyand a handful of my father’s diamonds, I hired a crew, and I began to make the merchants of the seven kingdomshurt, one ship at a time.”
“You built a pirate empire from just one ship,” I murmur.
“One ship, and a heart full of bitter hate.” Locke’s voice is thickening, the alcohol overcoming him at last. His eyes drift shut, and I watch his face smooth into sleep. My heart pulses with pity and admiration and something else, something hot and tender and violent. An emotion so strong I can barely contain it, much less name it.
Trembling, my cheeks still damp, I press a light kiss to his forehead.
He rewards me with a rumbling snore.
51
In the middle of the night I wake to dampness and discomfort. After Locke fell asleep I squeezed myself onto the bed between the wall and his splayed body, and for a second I have a very horrible notion of what the wetness I’m lying in might be. Perhaps he pissed himself after all that rum.
And then I feel the telltale ache in my lower belly, the cramping I endure every month around the same time.
Oh gods no.
And also, thanks be to the gods that I am not pregnant with the Pirate King’s baby.
I lie still, pressing a hand to my abdomen, deeply and woefully embarrassed. Back on theWending Willow, when I had my bleeding, I was able to take care of it quietly. It was an unpleasant experience—always has been, even at home—but at least back in Ivris I had maids, and hot water, and as many supplies as I needed. I brought some supplies with me on theWending Willow, but they’re gone. Now I have nothing.
I can’t simply lie here. I have to do something. I have to take care of this.
I put out the light before climbing in bed, so it’s pitch black in the cabin. Awkwardly I clamber out of the bed and fumble for the lamp. As I’m lighting it, my elbow knocks one of the books I was reading off the table, and it slams to the floor.
The lamplight flares up as Locke springs out of bed, his hair mussed and his eyes wild. “What? What is it?” He rubs a wrist across his face, then stares at my bloodied nightdress. “Gods, Nick, are you hurt? Who did this to you?” He rushes to me, taking my hand, which has a bit of blood smeared along the wrist. Curse my clumsiness.
Locke catches my chin and forces me to look at him. His eyes are white with rage. “Tell me who hurt you. I’ll kill him, I swear—I’ll hang his guts from the rigging and make him watch the gulls peck at them.”
“Ugh, Locke.” I shudder. “Nobody hurt me. It’s—it’s my monthly bleeding.”
He stares. “Your what?”
“You know—how most women—they bleed once a month—it’s a fertility thing—” My face is burning hotter by the second.
“I know how it works.” I could swear he’s flushing too, though it’s difficult to tell in the guttering yellow light of the lamp. “Um—” He runs a broad hand through his black hair and looks from the stained bedsheets to me. “What should I do?”
“I need some cloths,” I murmur. “The thicker and cleaner, the better. Lots of them.”
“Cloths,” he repeats.
“And something else to wear. With more coverage than the things you brought me earlier.”
He nods. “Anything else?”
I wince, pressing my hand to my belly, wishing for the herbal tonic one of the maids used to make for me each month. “No, nothing else.” My eyes are prickling, tears swelling in spite of my efforts to control myself. I was taught to keep my bleeding time hidden and secret as much as possible, not to speak of it or let anyone know it was happening. That guidance is still with me, and it’s beyond humiliating to suffer this indignity of bleeding in front of the Pirate King, the man who rules a thousand ships across the seas.
Locke peers curiously at me. “Does it hurt?”
“Yes,” I seethe. “And it’s embarrassing.”
He voices a breathless laugh. “I’ll admit, you scared me at first. But it’s only a little blood, love. I’ll take care of it.”
Barefoot he strides out of the cabin, while I strip the soiled sheets from the bed and try to clean the mattress beneath. The mattress has seen a number of questionable stains already, including some that are brown like old blood, so I don’t feel too bad about adding to the mess. But I hate the idea that I’ve been sleeping on the disgusting thing. I want my comfortable bed at home, with my pillows and my own comfortable nightdresses and underthings, and my scented soaps, my perfumes—
When Locke returns with his arms full, I’m sitting on the floor, on top of the pile of dirty sheets, with my knees tucked up and my face buried in my hands, sobbing quietly.
