voice with the unusual accent commanded.
"Remember your misery on your first day at sea."
"She
deserves the misery. She has brought this upon herself. Perhaps she will learn
manners now."
"Aye,
but there are more effective ways to ensure civility. Girl? Sit down and watch
the horizon. Put your face to the wind and drink this."
"I
desire no more wine," Shannon coughed. "It is the wine that brought
me to this state of wretchedness."
"No,
it was your overdrink that did so. Sit down upon the deck and drink. Now."
His dark eyes met hers, locking tightly into her gaze.
"No."
The
man looked genuinely surprised at her refusal. "You refuse to obey
me?"
"I
refuse to do anything any man orders me without a proper explanation,"
Shannon said hoarsely, leaning back over the railing. "I was taught by my
surrogate father to challenge anything that is unfamiliar. And this, Sir
Pirate, is most unfamiliar."
The
man stared at her for several seconds, clearly surprised by her words.
"Very well, my lady. Please, sit and drink. This will settle your stomach.
It is made of pennyroyal, ginger root, and wormwood steeped in honey
water."
He
held out his hand to assist her. With the change in his tone, Shannon placed
her hand in his and allowed him to carefully lower her to the smooth, damp
deck. The condition of her elegant dress was forgotten as she sat cross-legged
and tried to focus her eyes on the distant horizon. A wineskin was held to her
lips. Shannon sipped, immediately gagging at the flavor of the beverage.
"Are you trying to poison me?" she coughed.
"If
I were to do that, I would have made it taste pleasant to guarantee you
finishing every drop. Drink more."
"It is disgusting."
"It
is helping, though. Is it not?"
"Yes,
it seems to be. Thank you," Shannon said, rubbing her forehead. She
accepted the wet rag he handed her. "No more wine for me."
"Not
during the first time at sea." The man squatted next to her, crossing his
hands between his spread knees. "You would have known better had you
traveled by water before. What is your name?"
"Shannon
McCleary. Yes, this is my first ocean journey, and I am pleased to learn it
will be a short one. My legs were designed for riding atop a stallion, not
folding in half on an unstable deck."
Riding
a stallion? Dom's mind slipped into a place that no gentleman should go. But
then, the only ones who accused him of being a gentleman were his sworn
enemies. "I am most pleased to meet you, Mistress McCleary. Yes, this
route is a swift one. If the wind picks up and remains in our favor, we might
even arrive before the high moon."
"I'm
praying for a monsoon, then. High moon is not for seven days." Shannon
groaned. "Why must we go this route? France would have been closer."
"Your
journey requires that you be surrounded by allies of the king. The English and
French are not pleasant bedfellows to Moldavia."
"And
how does a peasant pirate know these things?"
"I
told you. I watch closely and listen carefully."
"I
see. Will this misery end?" Shannon gagged again.
Dom
handed her the wineskin. "It will if you follow directions and do not
exercise an obstinate nature."
"I
happen to be quite skilled in exercising an obstinate nature."
"That
remains to be seen. When one is inflexible, they tend to break much more
quickly than those open to change."
Shannon
groaned, closing her eyes. "The only thing I desire right now is to
die."
"No,
you do not." The man's tone grew dark.
Shannon
opened one eye, "Have you a name?"
"Moarte."
"No
other?"
"That
is how those closest refer to me, madam."
"And
what of your enemies. What do they call you?" Shannon asked, sipping more
of the vile liquid.
Dom
looked at her, his vision seeking to find the depth of her soul. Her eyes
simply looked back at his like pools of cold water. "They call me Moarte
as well," he said softly.
"What
does that mean?"
"It
is something you do not seek."
"I
asked you a question. What does Moarte mean?"
He
uttered a single word.
"Remember your misery on your first day at sea."
"She
deserves the misery. She has brought this upon herself. Perhaps she will learn
manners now."
"Aye,
but there are more effective ways to ensure civility. Girl? Sit down and watch
the horizon. Put your face to the wind and drink this."
"I
desire no more wine," Shannon coughed. "It is the wine that brought
me to this state of wretchedness."
"No,
it was your overdrink that did so. Sit down upon the deck and drink. Now."
His dark eyes met hers, locking tightly into her gaze.
"No."
The
man looked genuinely surprised at her refusal. "You refuse to obey
me?"
"I
refuse to do anything any man orders me without a proper explanation,"
Shannon said hoarsely, leaning back over the railing. "I was taught by my
surrogate father to challenge anything that is unfamiliar. And this, Sir
Pirate, is most unfamiliar."
The
man stared at her for several seconds, clearly surprised by her words.
"Very well, my lady. Please, sit and drink. This will settle your stomach.
It is made of pennyroyal, ginger root, and wormwood steeped in honey
water."
He
held out his hand to assist her. With the change in his tone, Shannon placed
her hand in his and allowed him to carefully lower her to the smooth, damp
deck. The condition of her elegant dress was forgotten as she sat cross-legged
and tried to focus her eyes on the distant horizon. A wineskin was held to her
lips. Shannon sipped, immediately gagging at the flavor of the beverage.
"Are you trying to poison me?" she coughed.
"If
I were to do that, I would have made it taste pleasant to guarantee you
finishing every drop. Drink more."
"It is disgusting."
"It
is helping, though. Is it not?"
"Yes,
it seems to be. Thank you," Shannon said, rubbing her forehead. She
accepted the wet rag he handed her. "No more wine for me."
"Not
during the first time at sea." The man squatted next to her, crossing his
hands between his spread knees. "You would have known better had you
traveled by water before. What is your name?"
"Shannon
McCleary. Yes, this is my first ocean journey, and I am pleased to learn it
will be a short one. My legs were designed for riding atop a stallion, not
folding in half on an unstable deck."
Riding
a stallion? Dom's mind slipped into a place that no gentleman should go. But
then, the only ones who accused him of being a gentleman were his sworn
enemies. "I am most pleased to meet you, Mistress McCleary. Yes, this
route is a swift one. If the wind picks up and remains in our favor, we might
even arrive before the high moon."
"I'm
praying for a monsoon, then. High moon is not for seven days." Shannon
groaned. "Why must we go this route? France would have been closer."
"Your
journey requires that you be surrounded by allies of the king. The English and
French are not pleasant bedfellows to Moldavia."
"And
how does a peasant pirate know these things?"
"I
told you. I watch closely and listen carefully."
"I
see. Will this misery end?" Shannon gagged again.
Dom
handed her the wineskin. "It will if you follow directions and do not
exercise an obstinate nature."
"I
happen to be quite skilled in exercising an obstinate nature."
"That
remains to be seen. When one is inflexible, they tend to break much more
quickly than those open to change."
Shannon
groaned, closing her eyes. "The only thing I desire right now is to
die."
"No,
you do not." The man's tone grew dark.
Shannon
opened one eye, "Have you a name?"
"Moarte."
"No
other?"
"That
is how those closest refer to me, madam."
"And
what of your enemies. What do they call you?" Shannon asked, sipping more
of the vile liquid.
Dom
looked at her, his vision seeking to find the depth of her soul. Her eyes
simply looked back at his like pools of cold water. "They call me Moarte
as well," he said softly.
"What
does that mean?"
"It
is something you do not seek."
"I
asked you a question. What does Moarte mean?"
He
uttered a single word.
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