Chapter 7
Nick sat down at the desk in his cabin, a mug of coffee, wedge of cheese, and a ship’s biscuit at his elbow, and tried to bring his logbook up to date. He kept losing his train of thought because he glanced at the door every time he heard footsteps in the passageway. He’d expected Miss Chase to be here since she wasn’t eating in the fo’c’sle with the larboard watch. He’d seen her keeping them company several times now, avidly listening to their chatter. He only enforced the Swear Jar when there was a woman on board. Casually letting the men see him walk a shilling across the back of his fingers was all the reminder they needed to keep their tongues civil. So far no one had needed to contribute to the Jar.
Blast … he was overdue to check their position. He grabbed the logbook and headed topside.
There she was, seated on the windlass with Tucker. How did the addition of one woman, dressed like a deckhand no less, make a grizzled sailmaker with more than three decades at sea under his belt look like he was part of a ladies’ sewing circle? Their heads were together in deep conversation, the wind carrying away their words, as they stitched on the same sail. What did she have in common with Tucker to discuss so intently? Needlework techniques? She hadn’t even noticed Nick was on deck.
And why did he care that she hadn’t noticed him? Nick blew out an annoyed huff and took the readings he needed. As soon as he’d recorded the results, he went back down to the hold, where he’d already spent much of his morning overseeing part of the starboard watch. Some of the load had shifted or broken free during the storm, and in addition to setting cargo to rights, his crew had livestock to soothe. Bessie’s milk production always dropped off after a storm unless someone cuddled her like a lapdog.
As absurd as it was, he couldn’t help comparing the cuddling he’d done with Miss Chase after their dunking yesterday. He couldn’t explain why last night it had been so important to stand motionless, listening to her steady breathing, before he’d hung up his hammock. Why he’d done so rather noisily at the risk of waking her up, or why he’d felt a twinge of disappointment when he’d left the cabin this morning, with her having slept through his entire presence, even folding and putting away his blanket in the chest at the head of the bunk.
When he deemed Bessie suitably soothed—and the various casks, crates, and barrels safely stowed again, unlikely to shift or burst open—he went to the fo’c’sle to let Luigi know he was ready for a meal to be brought to his cabin. Miss Chase was stirring the common stewpot, deep in conversation with the cook. This was the second crewman he’d seen her spending time with, and no telling how long she’d chatted up Smitty in the slop chest this morning. Who was next—Jack?
Nick almost smacked his forehead as Jack sat down at the table and Miss Chase immediately joined him. Instead of leaving, as any sensible common tar would have done, Jack pulled out his scrimshaw knife and handed it to Miss Chase, who began asking him questions about the intricate carving on the bone handle. Nick really hoped it wasn’t the knife with the two naked ladies. Oh wait, Big Jim had won it from Jack in a card game in Amsterdam last month.
“Buona sera, capitano,” Luigi said, and Nick had to move out of the shadows.
“Buona sera.” Nick tried to smile rather than just baring his teeth when he looked toward Jack with Miss Chase.
“Think I’m needed topside,” Jack said upon hearing Nick. Jack retrieved his knife and got up from the bench so quickly he tangled his legs. He tugged his forelock toward Miss Chase and climbed the ladder, double time.
Smart man.
Miss Chase frowned.
“Your supper will be at your table molto rapidimente, capitano.”
“Grazie, Luigi.” As Nick entered his cabin and stripped to the waist to wash, he wondered if Miss Chase would continue flirting with Luigi as soon as Nick had left the galley.
Hold on. If he didn’t know better, he’d think his irritable mood stemmed from jealousy. Why should he be jealous? He was not interested in Miss Chase, other than her being the only female within hundreds of miles of ocean. Her presence on this voyage was merely the means to an end: getting the treasure his father didn’t want him to have. And she had assured him she was betrothed, so she couldn’t seriously be interested in stepping so far out of her social stratum as to socialize with any of the tars in his crew.
Then what in blazes was she doing chatting them up all day?
Nick flung his shirt into the corner and plunged his face into the basin of cold water. He’d have to remember to pick up the shirt before his cabin mate arrived—it wasn’t like he had a maid on board, a valet, or even a cabin boy since the last one had decided to go home to his mama after only one voyage. Nick had left London so quickly he hadn’t had time to hire a replacement.
Maid.
Miss Chase had no other females on board with whom to keep company. Not even her maid.
Of course she was chatting with the sailors. She was bored! Some of his other female passengers had done the same; Charlie had even learned how to cook from Luigi and Flynn. Not many ladies, though—most stayed within their level of society even if they were the only one on board within it, and had no interest in fraternizing with his lowly tars.
There had better not be any fraternizing. Chatting, yes. Fraternizing … he’d flay anyone he caught fraternizing with her.
His face buried in the towel as he dried off, he heard the door open, then a soft gasp. When he lowered the towel, Miss Chase was frozen in the doorway, hand to her mouth in astonishment, her gaze fixed on his torso.
“Something wrong, Miss Chase?” Surely the chit had seen a man’s naked chest before? Perhaps she’d never seen a tattoo before. The tribal design circling his left bicep was acquired during a stop in Samoa and a night sampling stronger-than-expected local booze. He couldn’t tell from this distance in this light if she was expressing good shock or bad shock.
“Does it hurt?” She advanced quickly into the cabin, then cautiously reached toward his side, fingers close but not quite touching him, though he felt the heat of her hands. “That looks dreadfully painful. I had no idea the rope did that to you. It surely couldn’t have helped to be holding my weight as well.”
Nick glanced down at the angry red and purple marks that circled his torso at the bottom of his ribcage, a souvenir from the safety rope during their underwater adventure yesterday. At Jonesy’s insistence, Nick had let Norton poke and prod him this morning. After several minutes of torture, the surgeon had assured him there were impressive bruises but no broken ribs.
She tutted. “Oh, you poor man. Do you need me to rub some liniment on it?”
That could be fun. “Thank you—”
Flynn knocked on the door before sliding it open, a dinner tray balanced against his hip.
“—but that won’t be necessary.” He waved Flynn in, who set the tray on the table and quickly left, a knowing smirk plastered across his face as he shut the door.
