Page 26 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son

Together they held their breaths until a nose breached the surface, and then the biggest fish Bash had ever seen thrust its way out of the water, rolling like a wave on the beach before crashing back to disappear below the surf.

The ship rocked, the crew below equally silent, as though Bash and Maggie were the only two humans in all the world to have witnessed such a remarkable thing, and he was glad she was there to see it.

“Was that a sea monster?” she whispered.

“Some kind of whale, innit?”

The beast breached the surface once more, slapping back down in a spray that reached them all the way in the tops, settling on Maggie’s eyelashes like a fine mist of pearls.

“Is it trying to scare us away?” she asked, in a voice that said it wasn’t working.

“Nah,” Bash explained. “It wants to play.”

“Play?” she giggled, leaning forward to watch as the whale leaped and splashed once more, and the men below clapped and cheered it on.

“Mercy,” she breathed. “How do you ever grow accustomed to it?”

“Many a fine sailor forgets himself when gazing upon the wonders of the water.”

“Not you, I imagine.”

Had she heard Dutch reference his ignominious first assent? Impossible, unless she was some kind of witch. She was only teasing, surely. “Ah, but I’m an exception, darlin’, born scarred and sea weary from the loins of a mermaid herself.”

She laughed, and the sound was something like the tinkling of tiny shells and sea glass.

“Bash?” she asked.

“Yes?” he replied too quickly, desperate to hear her question, even if it was about his past.

“How do we get down?”

Chapter Seven

Aman like Bash, Maggie was certain, must be well accustomed to giving orders. He couldn’t help it. The life he lived, shouting orders meant the difference between continuing to sail or being swallowed up by some kind of beautiful whale. He was used to giving orders and having them obeyed without question.

They were completely incompatible. Not that she was looking for compatibility.

Maggie might be just a little too much like her cousin Jory in all the wrong ways. She wasn’t overly sensitive, but directives chafed at her too-tight skin. Whether a command was common sense, whether aligned to her own desires, the minute an edict was issued, Maggie was compelled to do the very opposite. She’d always been that way—with her parents, her cousins, and obviously with Jeremiah too.

So why, then, did she find something attractive about Bash and his stern commands? Why was some part of her eager to comply, to do his bidding in exchange for a whispered Good girl, and not even roll her eyes? It was untenable, and it left her as annoyed with herself as she was with him. At the same time, she’d never lived moment to moment in a life-or-death situation before. It had never truly mattered if she was obstinate or headstrong or rash. Until now. Bash wasn’t making demands to exercise his power over her.

When Maggie’s father ordered her about, he had an air of detached resignation, like she was a scab he wished to heal for her own good, and with little expectation of compliance. When Jeremiah gave an order, it was always a disgusted dare to defy him. He wanted to fight, so he came in hot and half-angry. He knew Maggie couldn’t help giving him a reason for his ire.

In both cases, her father and Jeremiah were demanding power and submission. Theirs were orders rooted in the notion that women should do as they’re told regardless of everything else.

Bash was different. He ordered men as easily as women, and he had a way of being instructional. He expected to be obeyed absolutely, and he left no room for trepidation or doubt or disobedience. But he spoke with such confidence, his words sounded like the only logical course of action. It simply made sense to comply. So, as he guided Maggie through her descent from the rigging, she swallowed the desire to push him away and figure it out alone—she had asked him after all—and when she found his instructions at odds with her own instincts, she trusted him to know what he was about.

Once safely on deck, he showed her how to belay the rope which had been tangled and knot it around a long wooden pin so it wouldn’t come loose again. Then he ignored her completely to shout orders like, “Helms a lee!” and “Haul wind!” Everyone except Maggie had a role to play in turning the massive ship in a more southerly direction, and she watched with fascination as their muscles bulged and strained to make it happen.

When they finished and the sails were back in place, billowing less fully than before, Bash peered through his spyglass for longer than seemed necessary. Then he sent Maggie to fetch him some rum. So maybe a few of his orders were self-serving.

She was tempted to splash the bumbo back in his face and announce that she wasn’t a servant at his beck and call, but as cabin boy, that’s exactly what she was, so she filled his tankard to the brim and swallowed her pride.

As she handed it over, her fingers brushed against his rope-calloused palm and heat flared in her cheeks. He stared at her a moment before taking a long drink, never breaking eye contact, then handed the half-full mug back to her.

“Are you drinking enough as well?” he asked, sounding like a school master who knew he’d caught his charge misbehaving.

Maggie licked her chapped lips.