Page 14 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son

Her hands had been one of her husband’s chief complaints. Or at least one of his first.

She should have realized what was in store the moment Jeremiah tried to slip the wedding band on her finger and found it too small. Such anger had flashed in his eyes. Maggie had been a little embarrassed, but she didn’t blame him in the slightest. After all, her father had sprung the whole thing on her, and she supposed Jeremiah hadn’t had time to adequately prepare either. But when they visited a smithy to have the band resized, Jeremiah had snidely remarked that he hadn’t expected his young bride to possess such mannish hands.

A month later, he stumbled home from the tavern after ripping his shirt doing God knew what, and he threw it at her. “Time to do something useful with those idle meat hooks,” he’d grumbled. Her hands shook as she clumsily repaired the damaged garment. Such a small tear, but she’d wanted to please him, so she had labored over it by candlelight for more than an hour to get it just right.

In the morning he’d thrown the shirt into the fire.

Not to be outdone, Maggie had taken her sewing shears to the rest of his tops and cut gaping holes in the lot of them, tossing those bits in the fire as well. It had been war between them ever after.

Marriage means war, Jory liked to quote her mother’s favorite saying, and Maggie often wondered if she somehow inherited her particular character flaws from the auntie she’d never met and with whom she shared no blood. Because she supposed it had been a war of her own making. She’d always been that way—starving for someone to look after, impetuous and spiteful when her efforts were spurned. Hadn’t she spent half her life being a brat to Ellen and Jory because Ellen needed none but Jory, and Jory needed only herself?

Maggie had also spent most of her life dreaming of a handsome husband—one who couldn’t survive without her devotion, as well as the many children they would give each other. The reality of marriage and the truth of her auntie’s famous words had proved a crushing disappointment.

And yet… feisty Jory and meek Wee Ellen had somehow each found her perfect match.

Finlay Shaw was Jory’s fiercest supporter, teaching her to fight and proud of her independent nature. He also challenged her more than she allowed anyone else in all the world to do, pushing her to see every angle of a problem and solution.

Ellen’s Silas MacKenzie had a heart as big as he was, but one that needed both gentle nurturing and a firm push in equal measure. Somehow, they’d both seen the people inside the other’s skin, the perfect complement to the ones inside their own.

Both women had flourished in their partnerships with the two gorgeous men, made lighter by having someone to share their burdens, and that was it, wasn’t it? Theirs were partnerships.

For the past year, Maggie had tried to analyze what precisely went wrong in her own marriage. When exactly had it become doomed? Why was it the furthest thing from a partnership? Her conclusion, night after dismal night, was that she was what had gone wrong. She might wish to take care of those around her, but anyone could see she was incapable, and then she proved them right by hurting them over and over again.

Stabbing the needle through the stiff canvas sail as though it were a lance capable of vanquishing her dreary thoughts, she gouged the sharp steel into her thumb by mistake. Quickly, she sucked the sore finger, willing it not to bleed all over her work. The captain might not like that.

When she’d confessed to Lorna her desire to visit someplace warm, she had envisioned lying on her back in the soft sand, pondering the shapes of passing clouds. She really was a perfect fool, sneaking into a den of thieves in the dead of night. So far, she’d been very lucky, but what would happen if her luck ran out?

Nearby, the bell was rung six or seven times to signify the hour, and then a shadow fell across Maggie’s work. She examined her thumb for signs of blood, afraid to look up and see which rotten-toothed pirate was looming there. But then Bash squatted down before her, a bit of dark brown hair peeking from his open collar, thighs filling out his breeches, stretching them obscenely tight, as he studied her work up close. He smelled of tangy sea brine and citrus, and he placed a fresh tankard of spiced rum before her.

“Drink.”

When she reached for it, he caught her wrist, not hard, but firm enough to make a shiver run through her belly. This braw young man might be the stuff of her teenage daydreams, but she was there for adventure, not a dalliance. Besides, when had reality ever measured up to childish dreams?

“Did I not tell you to refill your cup?”

“I was busy,” she explained, lifting the sail and bracing herself for his stern critique.

“When did you last urinate?” he asked, and her eyes shot open wide at the blunt question. She also couldn’t remember, and he knew it. “Drink,” he said again, holding her gaze with such seriousness Maggie dared not refuse.

She gulped the foul-tasting stuff, and he nodded approvingly. She could almost hear the whispered, “Good girl,” from earlier and it made her tingle. Settle down.

“This is very well done,” he said, admiring the sail.

“Oh, stuff it,” she muttered before she realized his praise was genuine. “It’s not even straight,” she added.

“You’re not embroidering a tablecloth, darlin’. You’ve lined the edges up perfectly, and these stitches look tight and strong.”

He ran his fingers over her mending—long, fine fingers—and for half a moment, Maggie imagined him running those fingers down her torso, around the curve of her breast, and over her ribs. Settle down.

“Like scar tissue,” he murmured, with something akin to awe in his voice. “Stronger than even before it was torn.”

His praise made her glow with warmth from the inside out. Who’d have thought so many years of frustrating needlework would land her employment aboard a pirate ship?

“I did my best,” she explained.

“You’ve done fine work, Magnus. This’ll hold up well in the next storm.”

“The next one?” Her eyes snapped up to meet his. They were such a deep, dark brown, like the richest earth after a rain.