The Pirate Captain by Kerry Lynne Page A

galley the other, the cook, ladle poised in hand, watching them pass. They came out of the passage into an open space one could only call the gundeck. As low-ceilinged as the Constancy , the ’tween deck was cavernous. The pirate ship was no more than a platform for the double phalanx of guns, crouched in their carriages like silent black sentinels. The ports stood open, the fresh air thankfully stirring the miasma of bilge, stale gunpowder, and soiled hammocks.
    She balked at the sight of a large number of men gathered at the foot of another companionway. It was only Blackthorne’s presence pushing from behind that kept her from turning and running, that and the recollection of what had happened the last time she tried to do so. The smell of blood grew sharp. It mingled with that of sweat and gunpowder as they neared. It was then that she saw the injured being helped down the steps. The wounded sat where they could, the more serious lying on the floor. Some glared at the sight of her; others looked on with mild interest.
    Pryce’s voice rose over the commotion. “By the saints, Chin. Any chuckle-headed fool could see a thing like that won’t close on its own.”
    A final shove from Blackthorne put Cate squarely before the man Pryce addressed. Hunched on a stool, his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his chest, the man clutched his thigh, the blood seeping between his fingers pooling on the floor. He looked up and she found herself looking into the same impassive broad face and flat black eyes of the one who had held the knife to her throat, the one she had slashed with her sword. Her stomach lurched, the rum she had drank now an icy cannonball. Chin’s face twitched with recognition, and then settled into malevolence.
    “He be refusin’, Cap’n,” Pryce said, his hands propped on his hips. His destroyed mouth tucked up in a wry twist. “You know how he is about bein’ sewed.”
    “I sorry for it, Cap’n. In wrong place,” Chin said in stilted English. The admission of having been done for by a woman didn’t come easily. The glare he directed at her suggested he desired the favor to be returned.
    Blackthorne knelt next to Chin and clapped him on the shoulder. “Word has it someone thought you a fish and sought to dice you up for supper. Appears to be a tough one what needs throwing back, eh, mates?”
    The pirates laughed, the tension lifted. The change in Blackthorne was so remarkable she had to look again to make sure it was the same man. Like an actor shifting roles, he was suddenly amiable, even caring. Judging by the surrounding faces, this version was a familiar one.
    Blackthorne gently pried open Chin’s grasp to inspect the wound. A surge of guilt struck Cate at seeing the gash through the rent in Chin’s breeches. Longer than one’s hand, it ran diagonally across the fat of his thigh, the blood welling to a steady flow once the pressure was removed. Pryce’s analysis had been accurate: with the edges curling back, a wound such as that would only fester, eventually costing him his leg.
    Blackthorne clucked his tongue as one would scold a child. “’Tis going to have to be sewn.”
    Sweat beading on his shaven head, Chin clamped his hand back in place and bit his lip against the pain. “All respect, sir, I can’t bear thought of stitch, especially by any o’ you.”
    Blackthorne took the rebuke in stride. “You’ve seen Pryce and Kirkland both mend many a man.”
    “Aye, many fester and die—lucky ones, at least. So, Crooks?” Chin directed his question to a man who stood against the bulkhead, his partly empty sleeve knotted off just below the elbow.
    “Can’t say ’twere Pryce’s fault entirely,” Crooks said, laconically.
    Blackthorne fixed a minatory eye on her. A drama was being played out in which she was expected to take part, but how, she couldn’t tell. Chin’s reluctance seemed to be feeding Blackthorne’s irritation with her. Judging by the intent and worried looks, Chin was