Page 42 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son

“I was hoping to let her rest in a quiet corner below deck,” she said, and Roo guffawed.

“Looks like your pet has found a pet there, Bashy.”

Bash glared at the cook but gestured for Maggie to lead the way below deck.

No sooner had they entered his alcove, however, than Bash pushed her against the bulkhead, surprising her so she almost dropped the basket she was taking off her shoulder.

She looked up at him, searching his eyes, and he took her face in both hands, staring at her in a way that made it impossible to breathe, running his thumbs along each side of her jaw. Then he crashed his lips against hers, frantically, hungrily, like if he reined himself in any longer he’d burst.

His whole body was so close, as though he would climb inside her skin if he could, and Maggie wanted him to, even as she felt his heartbeat through the bulge hardening against her stomach. Then, just as abruptly, he ripped himself back, pressing only his forehead to hers and breathing heavily.

She didn’t remember grabbing him, but there were fistfuls of his shirt balled in her hands, which she released, noting how crumpled the fabric had become.

“I messed up your sark,” she said, still gasping for breath after such a thorough kissing.

“No matter,” he replied in a rough whisper.

Kes squawked grumpily.

Just within reach, there was a small ledge where the bulkhead and the upper deck met, and she stood on her toes, stretching to place the basket and open it before stepping back.

Bash watched, frowning, as the bird hopped out of the basket, tossing them both a dirty look, then hunkered back down quietly in her new nest box.

“Why are you glaring at her like that?” Maggie asked, noting Bash’s wary scowl. “Did you really mind bringing her in?”

He shook his head. “Kestrel,” he said, frowning even more deeply. “This far out on the open sea? Where the devil did she come from?”

Now it was Maggie’s turn to frown.

“So you do believe in omens? Like Langley and the rest?”

“Dunno what to think,” Bash admitted, drawing Maggie back against his chest with one arm, kissing the top of her head as they watched the bird settle in. “Perhaps the fool thing snuck aboard in Scotland, same as you.”

Yet again, she couldn’t dodge the desire to stay right there in his little alcove for the rest of forever.

The lookouts confirmed Maggie’s sighting, and a course was laid for a furtive interception. The evening’s revelry was unlike anything she’d yet experienced.

Prevented from cooking the kestrel, Roo killed the last two fat hens instead. It was an optimistic move, but Maggie supposed they would soon capture the Woebegone Whale and be inundated with whatever livestock and provisions were aboard.

The cook stuffed his birds with corn and who knew what all, and roasted them up, before making the men arm wrestle for the chance to snap apart the collarbones for luck. Everyone was joyous and rowdy, finishing off the dregs of bumbo and starting in on the Scottish ale.

She, too, felt tipsy and thirsty, with a thirst no amount of drink could ever quench. She finally fit somewhere, never mind it was amongst pirates, passing as one of them, assumed name and all. They loved her for having spotted the Woebegone Whale, not to mention ridding them of the pesky bird, and they made it clear, offering her tankard after tankard.

Only Bash seemed reticent about the coming days. He sat apart, quietly observing the celebrations like a glowering figurehead on a forbidding prow. His mood was the only thing to temper Maggie’s spirits, reminding her of the battle and bloodshed looming on the horizon.

When they grew too drunk to continue dancing around the tables, several men began tussling over a deck of cards.

“Oh!” Maggie remembered. “You were going to teach me how to play!”

“Aye,” Bash said.

“Now’s good a time as any, Bashy,” Roo said. “Shall we deal you in?”

“Not tonight,” Bash answered, steering Maggie through the rowdy throng, muttering, “Friends don’t let friends wager when they’re in their cups.”

“Is that what we are?” Maggie asked, smiling giddily, warmth spreading through her that was wholly unrelated to the ale. Friends.

She hadn’t had one in so very long. Lorna had been the only person on Orkney she’d have called a friend, and the woman was more of a conveniently located acquaintance—a neighbor who tolerated her because of the only things they had in common: their gender and their proximity.