Trevor assumed his station and assessed the damage to the Hera . On occasion, the sun filtered through the clouds bathing the ship in warm, golden light. The tempest had passed.
On the main deck, the boatswain was busy directing the crew in a thorough inspection of the canvas and rigging. Seated on a chair in the middle of the action was Caroline. Small tears in the main upper topsail required darning. Quick to volunteer, she all but danced a jig when, after a nod of approval from Trevor, the leader of the watch accepted her offer of help.
Turning his attention to the charts laid before him, he plotted their current position. The storm had blown them off course, but was no cause for alarm; he would make the necessary adjustments and have them navigating the Channel in no time. After consulting his compass, he affixed small notations to the maps.
“Hoist the topsail,” the boatswain bellowed.
“Merciful heavens, Cap’n, will ya look at that?”
With a hand at the small of his back, Trevor stretched. “What is it, George?”
The forenoon watch had run up the repaired canvas and was positioning it on the mainmast. There was nothing out of the ordinary about that, yet his first mate seemed transfixed, facing skyward, hands shielding his eyes from the glare of sunlight.
Mirroring his stance, Trevor followed his gaze. Jaw clenched, breath seized, chest tightened, gut wrenched, he couldn’t move. High atop the mast perched Mistress Caroline. Balanced on the footropes, she laced the sail to the yard.
Did the damn fool woman not recognize the danger?
She could be killed.
Summoning every ounce of control within him, he descended the companion ladder and stomped toward the boatswain. It took a Herculean effort to suppress the urge to shout his displeasure, because he was afraid she might fall if he yelled.
Unable to contain the fury in his voice, he barked, “Bo’sun.”
“Cap’n, let me handle this.” Grabbing hold of his elbow, George halted him. “Mr. Boyle, bring the lady down--now.”
The crewman peered at Trevor, flinched, and nodded once. “Ma’am, the men can finish from there.”
“Are you sure?” the ladybird asked from above, as she pulled taut a stitch and then looped another.
That did it.
“Mistress Caroline, present yourself this instant.”
A single misstep was all it would take. Did she expect to sprout wings and fly?
“Aye, Captain.”
On a final inspection of her work, she nodded, and then shimmied through the shrouds, clutching the ratlines for balance. As soon as her feet touched the deck, Trevor grasped her arm, giving her no warning of the tumult twisting his insides.
“What--” She emitted a strangled cry.
The knowledge that his courtesan was safe should have appeased him. It did not. The fear, the sheer terror coiling in the pit of his belly found a convenient outlet in his hand, which he let fly with a resounding smack on her bottom. The impact stung his palm and buckled her knees, and she would’ve fallen forward had he not still been holding her.
Yanking her upright, fingers digging into her shoulders, Trevor shook her hard, and the emotions welling inside him roared at once. “What in bloody hell do you think you are about?”
Shock and humiliation eclipsing her expression, Caroline reached for him. “I was only--”
“Hie yourself below.” Trevor pushed her away with sufficient force that she tripped. “If I so much as see your face on deck, I will blister your hide.”
With head held high, she walked to the steps leading to his quarters and descended.
Her absence should have made him feel better.
It did not.
For a long while he stood there, second-guessing the weight of his actions and the implication of the emotions that held him captive in some invisible, but nonetheless real, prison.
Trevor could not move.
Until he surveyed the angry, almost mutinous, faces surrounding him. “Carry on,” was all
On the main deck, the boatswain was busy directing the crew in a thorough inspection of the canvas and rigging. Seated on a chair in the middle of the action was Caroline. Small tears in the main upper topsail required darning. Quick to volunteer, she all but danced a jig when, after a nod of approval from Trevor, the leader of the watch accepted her offer of help.
Turning his attention to the charts laid before him, he plotted their current position. The storm had blown them off course, but was no cause for alarm; he would make the necessary adjustments and have them navigating the Channel in no time. After consulting his compass, he affixed small notations to the maps.
“Hoist the topsail,” the boatswain bellowed.
“Merciful heavens, Cap’n, will ya look at that?”
With a hand at the small of his back, Trevor stretched. “What is it, George?”
The forenoon watch had run up the repaired canvas and was positioning it on the mainmast. There was nothing out of the ordinary about that, yet his first mate seemed transfixed, facing skyward, hands shielding his eyes from the glare of sunlight.
Mirroring his stance, Trevor followed his gaze. Jaw clenched, breath seized, chest tightened, gut wrenched, he couldn’t move. High atop the mast perched Mistress Caroline. Balanced on the footropes, she laced the sail to the yard.
Did the damn fool woman not recognize the danger?
She could be killed.
Summoning every ounce of control within him, he descended the companion ladder and stomped toward the boatswain. It took a Herculean effort to suppress the urge to shout his displeasure, because he was afraid she might fall if he yelled.
Unable to contain the fury in his voice, he barked, “Bo’sun.”
“Cap’n, let me handle this.” Grabbing hold of his elbow, George halted him. “Mr. Boyle, bring the lady down--now.”
The crewman peered at Trevor, flinched, and nodded once. “Ma’am, the men can finish from there.”
“Are you sure?” the ladybird asked from above, as she pulled taut a stitch and then looped another.
That did it.
“Mistress Caroline, present yourself this instant.”
A single misstep was all it would take. Did she expect to sprout wings and fly?
“Aye, Captain.”
On a final inspection of her work, she nodded, and then shimmied through the shrouds, clutching the ratlines for balance. As soon as her feet touched the deck, Trevor grasped her arm, giving her no warning of the tumult twisting his insides.
“What--” She emitted a strangled cry.
The knowledge that his courtesan was safe should have appeased him. It did not. The fear, the sheer terror coiling in the pit of his belly found a convenient outlet in his hand, which he let fly with a resounding smack on her bottom. The impact stung his palm and buckled her knees, and she would’ve fallen forward had he not still been holding her.
Yanking her upright, fingers digging into her shoulders, Trevor shook her hard, and the emotions welling inside him roared at once. “What in bloody hell do you think you are about?”
Shock and humiliation eclipsing her expression, Caroline reached for him. “I was only--”
“Hie yourself below.” Trevor pushed her away with sufficient force that she tripped. “If I so much as see your face on deck, I will blister your hide.”
With head held high, she walked to the steps leading to his quarters and descended.
Her absence should have made him feel better.
It did not.
For a long while he stood there, second-guessing the weight of his actions and the implication of the emotions that held him captive in some invisible, but nonetheless real, prison.
Trevor could not move.
Until he surveyed the angry, almost mutinous, faces surrounding him. “Carry on,” was all
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