Page 13 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son

The captain wasn’t either. “Magnus, was it?” he asked.

She nodded.

“I didn’t catch that.”

“Yes, sir,” she said in that same low voice.

“Are you in the habit of trespassing, Magnus?”

She shook her head once. “No, sir.”

“And yet. You invaded our privacy. Threatened our property. Infiltrated our home.”

“And I whipped him for it,” Bash interjected. “He’ll not sit comfortably for a week, I assure you, or I’ll take him in hand again.”

The captain nodded. “I, of all men, understand the lure of the sea, the irrepressible desire, the drive, that once your mind is made up to take action, nothing can stop.”

The girl nodded her head as though he had perfectly understood.

“But why did you do it in a dress?”

Bash’s stomach dropped. He hadn’t thought up that particular part of the fiction.

The girl merely shrugged. “It was the only way I could slip down to the beach. I was supposed to be doing my chores while my sister was allowed off to the market. Only I tore my britches scrabbling with another lad, and my mam would’ve tanned me good for it. So I pinched my sister’s clothes right off the washing line and slipped away down to see your ship.” She shrugged again. “And then I decided, why not come aboard?”

The captain threw back his head to laugh, and then tsked his tongue, and Bash finally allowed himself to breathe. “Subterfuge and petty theft—he’ll fit in better than you, boy. Perhaps you should whip him again for his mother’s sake.”

“I’m fairly tempted,” Bash agreed, pretending to frown at Maggie’s quick, if rambling lie. “And lest anyone gets any ideas,” he added, raising his voice for the whole company to hear, “It’ll be me alone who whips him. He’s mine, understand? My responsibility.”

A few guffawed lecherously, while others cast knowing winks and smirks his way. Most of all, the captain seemed pleased. It was enough to turn Bash’s stomach, but better to be assumed a pederast than the alternative consequences.

Only Dutch’s look of deep disapproval really cut him. He would laugh, though, when Bash explained it all someday. For now, at least, the girl was safe.

“Sometimes my sailing master forgets he’s not in charge,” the captain said, stepping closer and clapping a hand on Maggie’s shoulder with a meaningful glance tossed over her head at Bash. “As it seems you’ll be staying awhile, I’m Cornelius MacLeod. You may address me as Captain. Welcome aboard Auldfarrand’s Revenge.”

“Thank you, sir,” she whispered.

“Bring the axe,” he called, and then Maggie turned a bit green. Mad was loving it.

“Aye, you must sign the articles over the axe to be official,” Bash rushed to explain. “Can you write?”

Maggie nodded and licked her lips, watching nervously as the boarding axe was brought forward and the ship’s rules laid over it for signing. Looking to Bash for approval once more, she accepted the quill Samson offered her and only faltered a little over signing her assumed name.

“I’ll get you a needle and twine,” Dutch told her when it was done, heading off to round up the supplies.

Nodding to herself, Maggie sat down on the deck to wait, but immediately sprang to her feet, rubbing her backside while the nearest men snickered, and Bash’s heart rather burst with pride.

Chapter Four

The air was brisk and bright on deck, a mixture of cool from the wind that filled their sails and warmth from the unrelenting sun. It would singe Maggie’s face to a cherry-red crisp and make her freckle something awful. A part of her old self still cared a little, wondering briefly if she could treat them with lime juice from the bumbo to make them lighten. But the new, adventurous Magnus laughed at this vain line of thinking. What would a whole face full of freckles matter amongst pirates? If anything, they might improve her disguise.

Pirates… she still wasn’t used to the idea, still couldn’t quite reconcile what she was learning with all she’d thought she knew. Now she had signed on as crew, agreeing to abide by their code: no stealing from each other, lights out at eight, no women, and no gambling allowed.

She flexed her hand and shifted uncomfortably on the wooden deck. Despite no actual smacks to her bare behind, after three days in the cramped hold, her bottom was sore anyway, and the thin linen trousers favored by sailors offered far less cushion than her skirts and earasaid had done.

The palm she’d offered up so Bash could make her cry still stung something fierce, her awkward grip on the heavy canvas exacerbating the chafe. Now the fingers of her other hand were beginning to cramp as she struggled to wield a thick sewing needle. She worked it back and forth to form a jagged scar across the sail resembling the one upon Bash’s cheek.

It had been the truth when she said her sewing wasn’t pretty. Despite years of tortured practice, her stitches always turned out rough and uneven. Her sister could embroider lovely designs in delicate silk. Even Jory, who claimed to eschew all of the feminine arts, could sew lace fine enough to reattach a butterfly wing. Not Maggie. She was impatient and impulsive, and besides that, her hands were simply too large for dainty work.