Taking her hand, he pressed his lips to her knuckles, and looked up at her with twinkling brown eyes. "'Course, then we'da had to kill ye."
She removed her hand with alacrity. "You could have tried."
The men oohed and cackled.
The top of Squint-Eye's head was shiny and bald, which she noted readily for he reached no higher than her chin, but his bushy eyebrows rose long and high on his face. Blotches on his cheeks and ears marred his tanned skin, he was missing a top front tooth, and she would be hard pressed to guess his age. Forty, perhaps. Or fifty?
Did pirates live so long?
He scratched his stomach and grinned. "Aye, ye're a sharp un. No wonder ye put a bullet in the cap'n. I'm Blowfish. Blowfish Burnham, at yer service."
"Don't ask him how he earned the name of Blowfish," the sailor with the eye patch advised in an upper class British accent. "Or he'll tell you."
She glanced around, not understanding, and that was a cause for more laughter.
"Now hush up, men," Blowfish said. "She's a lady. Any damned fool can see that, and ye're all damned fools." To her, he said, "I'm the first mate of the Scottish Witch, the sweetest sailing ship ever to cruise the seas."
"The Scottish Witch is Captain Taran's ship?" As if Cate had to ask. Of course it was Taran's ship, and obviously, he had named it after her.
The louse.
"Aye, and she's as lithe and lovely as ye are." Blowfish put his hands to his cheeks and sighed as if overwhelmed by her beauty.
Which he might well be. She knew she looked her best in her stylish pelisse-robe of a striped taffeta in alternating shades of dark green. Her small squared collar was neat, and the trim of black velvet allowed her to wear mourning without actually advertising her grief. She worse a reticule belted at her side, one large enough to carry the essentials to grooming in such a rough environment — and, when necessary, her lockpick tools. Right now, she considered it necessary, and the tools rested snugly inside. On Mr. Throckmorton's advice she'd sewn a pocket in each of her skirts. But she would keep that a secret. She knew of no reason why Blowfish should know she kept a thin, sharp knife with her at all times.
Going to the head of the table, Blowfish clapped his hand on the one-eyed sailor's shoulder. "This smart-mouthed young feller is Quicksilver. A lady, disappointed in love, named him."
Quicksilver grimaced. "Pay no attention to Blowfish, ma'am. He imagines himself a wit, but he's only half that."
Blowfish rolled his eyes. "Very amusing, my good man." He was trying to do an imitation of Quicksilver, but he couldn't wrap his tongue around the noble syllables. "This is Dead Bob. He was named fer his sparkling personality."
Dead Bob nodded at her, his unlined, handsome face deadpan.
"We've got a reward fer the first person who can make him laugh," Quicksilver said.
"This is Mucus," Blowfish introduced a remarkably clean-nosed sailor.
"Maccus," the sailor muttered.
"Mucus," Blowfish insisted.
Color rose in the sailor's thin cheeks, and he looked up at her. "Beg pardon about last night."
The man obviously needed help. She was willing to provide it. "I would hope so. You'll never get a girl by offering yourself to her in a pub. If you'd like advice on courting, I'd be happy to assist you."
Dead Bob gave a crack of laughter.
Silence fell on the table. Everyone stared from her to Dead Bob and back again. Then, reluctantly, they dug out pound notes and gold coins and, as if she were a vendor, they tossed them at her.
"Everyone." Blowfish added his grimy bill to the growing pile. "You, too, Lilbit."
Lilbit was the cabin boy: youngest, blondest, and quite the tallest of the sailors. He hung his head and tossed in his coin.
Delighted, Cate considered the pile of money. "Is this truly mine?"
The men nodded glumly.
"Well! Thank you." Her first earnings! She gathered up the coins and bills and poked them in her reticule. "Although I still don't understand what you find so
She removed her hand with alacrity. "You could have tried."
The men oohed and cackled.
The top of Squint-Eye's head was shiny and bald, which she noted readily for he reached no higher than her chin, but his bushy eyebrows rose long and high on his face. Blotches on his cheeks and ears marred his tanned skin, he was missing a top front tooth, and she would be hard pressed to guess his age. Forty, perhaps. Or fifty?
Did pirates live so long?
He scratched his stomach and grinned. "Aye, ye're a sharp un. No wonder ye put a bullet in the cap'n. I'm Blowfish. Blowfish Burnham, at yer service."
"Don't ask him how he earned the name of Blowfish," the sailor with the eye patch advised in an upper class British accent. "Or he'll tell you."
She glanced around, not understanding, and that was a cause for more laughter.
"Now hush up, men," Blowfish said. "She's a lady. Any damned fool can see that, and ye're all damned fools." To her, he said, "I'm the first mate of the Scottish Witch, the sweetest sailing ship ever to cruise the seas."
"The Scottish Witch is Captain Taran's ship?" As if Cate had to ask. Of course it was Taran's ship, and obviously, he had named it after her.
The louse.
"Aye, and she's as lithe and lovely as ye are." Blowfish put his hands to his cheeks and sighed as if overwhelmed by her beauty.
Which he might well be. She knew she looked her best in her stylish pelisse-robe of a striped taffeta in alternating shades of dark green. Her small squared collar was neat, and the trim of black velvet allowed her to wear mourning without actually advertising her grief. She worse a reticule belted at her side, one large enough to carry the essentials to grooming in such a rough environment — and, when necessary, her lockpick tools. Right now, she considered it necessary, and the tools rested snugly inside. On Mr. Throckmorton's advice she'd sewn a pocket in each of her skirts. But she would keep that a secret. She knew of no reason why Blowfish should know she kept a thin, sharp knife with her at all times.
Going to the head of the table, Blowfish clapped his hand on the one-eyed sailor's shoulder. "This smart-mouthed young feller is Quicksilver. A lady, disappointed in love, named him."
Quicksilver grimaced. "Pay no attention to Blowfish, ma'am. He imagines himself a wit, but he's only half that."
Blowfish rolled his eyes. "Very amusing, my good man." He was trying to do an imitation of Quicksilver, but he couldn't wrap his tongue around the noble syllables. "This is Dead Bob. He was named fer his sparkling personality."
Dead Bob nodded at her, his unlined, handsome face deadpan.
"We've got a reward fer the first person who can make him laugh," Quicksilver said.
"This is Mucus," Blowfish introduced a remarkably clean-nosed sailor.
"Maccus," the sailor muttered.
"Mucus," Blowfish insisted.
Color rose in the sailor's thin cheeks, and he looked up at her. "Beg pardon about last night."
The man obviously needed help. She was willing to provide it. "I would hope so. You'll never get a girl by offering yourself to her in a pub. If you'd like advice on courting, I'd be happy to assist you."
Dead Bob gave a crack of laughter.
Silence fell on the table. Everyone stared from her to Dead Bob and back again. Then, reluctantly, they dug out pound notes and gold coins and, as if she were a vendor, they tossed them at her.
"Everyone." Blowfish added his grimy bill to the growing pile. "You, too, Lilbit."
Lilbit was the cabin boy: youngest, blondest, and quite the tallest of the sailors. He hung his head and tossed in his coin.
Delighted, Cate considered the pile of money. "Is this truly mine?"
The men nodded glumly.
"Well! Thank you." Her first earnings! She gathered up the coins and bills and poked them in her reticule. "Although I still don't understand what you find so
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