Bauer shoved a change of clothes at him with a grunt, and Darcy thanked him. Even Pemberley’s servants were dressed finer, but at least these garments were dry.
Another sailor dumped a pair of boots at his feet. “Reckon’ these’ll fit well enough.”
Before Darcy could even thank him or ask where his own boots had gone, a fourth sailor came out of the shadows with a blanket large enough to wrap himself in.
Carefully peeling off his wet shirt, Darcy inspected the gashes along his arms and back. One still oozed, while the others were angry, red welts.
The man who had handed Darcy the blanket tipped a flask onto a handkerchief and dabbed at his wounds. “I’m Affonso da Silva, ship surgeon,” he said, splashing more liquid over the linen and pressing it againstDarcy’s broken skin. The spirits stung like a dozen bees.
Darcy winced, but he turned to allow the man better access to the injuries on his other side, asking, “Portuguese?”
“Sim, senhor.We are from all over the world,” he answered, his English accented with a pleasant lilt. “Our foreign status discourages the British from impressing us into service. It is a protection, like the black sails we often use and the letters of apprenticeship we carry on our person from the captain.” He tucked the flask into his pocket and pulled out a jar.
“The captain gave you letters?” Darcy prompted, more in disbelief than in a pursuit of more information. Unless Alex had someone else pen the letters for her, she might know how to read and write.
“Aye, she did. Every one of us. Penned them herself.”
Drat. The she-devil was more cunning than Darcy had hoped. However, she obviously cared for her crew to give them means by which to protect themselves should a naval ship seeking new recruits seize them. It did not guarantee their freedom during this time of war, but it certainly could help. Darcy would do well not to underestimate her.
Dabbing his fingers inside the jar, da Silva smeared a vile-smelling ointment over Darcy’s stinging flesh. “It does not smell good, but it will keep infection away.”
The pungent odor diminished instrength as it dried. Or, more likely, Darcy grew accustomed to the smell. The nose, as his recent experiences were teaching him, was a forgiving organ. The balm was soothing.
Injuries treated, dry clothes donned, and feet encased in worn, soft leather, exhaustion overpowered Darcy. The men showed him to a hammock. It was inches off the floor, at the bottom of a stack of four.
“‘Til we know if ye get seasick or not,” Bauer explained.
A young man joined them, carrying a tin plate. “Eat while ye can. Once we’re farther from port, ye’ll get nothin’ but salt pork and hardtack.”
“London port?” Darcy asked, senses sharpening. So, they were not too far.
The men closest to the young man smacked him on the back of the head. Those too far shot sharp glares at him.
Da Silva spoke for the group. “Aye, but do not get any notions of jumping ship. The currents are too strong and the shore is too far.”
Darcy knew better than to trust the word of a pirate—even a well-spoken, educated surgeon like da Silva, but he wasn’t fool enough to test the man, either.
The surgeon poked the bruises on Darcy’s head. “With the beating you have taken, you would not survive the swim. You should be grateful the men pulled the ropes quicker than usual.” His eyes met Darcy’s. “Captain is firm, but she is not heartless.”
Darcy doubted that, and he would not waste hisbreath arguing with the man. Taking a bite of the stale bread and finding a deliciously seasoned slab of beef inside, Darcy devoured the meal, washing down every bite with a hot, spiced tea laced with rum. It was perhaps the best meal he had ever eaten.
So engrossed was he in his meal, he did not notice Bauer, Cotton, da Silva, and the others depart until he looked up and saw they were gone.
Only one man remained behind, watching him and listening. He had strong, wiry limbs and a square jaw grizzled with gray whiskers.
“What day is it?” Darcy asked, voice slurred. He shook his head. He had to know where he was if he had any chance of returning to London.
“Last day of August,” the grizzled man replied, his voice clipped and stern.
One day? Darcy reeled. It seemed like an eternity since he had been at the seedy tavern by the shoreline. He had missed Wickham’s wedding. The ingrate would give Richard difficulty, but Darcy trusted his cousin to manage him.
The man crossed his arms and leaned against a beam. “Name’s Beckett. I’m Cap’n’s first mate.”
The next in command. Darcy would do well to keep Beckett’s favor. He bowed his head, his frustration growing when he had to stifle a yawn. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Beckett,” he responded with a thick tongue.
“Ye’re as slickas Cap’n Nick.”
Darcy caught himself before he laughed. Only months ago, he had snubbed most of a village and delivered the most offensive proposal known to man, and now he was being accused of having smooth manners.
