Page 68 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son

He wasn’t convinced. “Scurvy then?” he asked, baring his teeth to make her do the same, gently tugging down her lip to check her gums. “Honestly, you look quite peaked.”

She patted his arm. “I am well,” she said, and then tried to drink the ale he offered, but instead raced to the railing and vomited over the side.

“Mags,” he said plaintively, “you’re not well.”

“I’ll be fine,” she snapped and walked away from him, wanting nothing more than to curl up in a heap with Custard purring warmly on her abdomen until it was her turn for the watch.

Because the captain was getting restless.

Bash hadn’t taken a night watch since the incident with Walsh, which meant neither had Maggie. But with more rumors than ever flying about ghost ships, the captain had put everyone on high alert, and since Maggie had been first to confirm sighting the Woebegone Whale, he was insistent she spend tonight looking out for any kind of vessel, friend or foe—and who was a friend to pirates?

A little surprised when Bash let her walk away, a thrill of fear ran through Maggie the moment she descended below deck on her own. Was Balthasar occupied above? Or lurking somewhere, waiting to catch her unawares with no Langley to intervene this time?

She shuddered, but no bogeymen jumped out of the shadows as she swiped bandages from the infirmary to line her smalls. She fed Kes a bit of dried beef and eventually Custard joined her in the hammock, glaring hungrily at the bird from Maggie’s lap.

Bash roused her with a bowl of bland fish soup not long before the second watch bells.

“It was supposed to have a touch of milk in it, but they ate the cow last week,” he said sorrowfully. “I’ve never seen Rooijakkers so devastated on account of his cheese.”

“Poor Roo,” Maggie agreed. “It’s delicious even without the milk, thank you,” she told him, hoping gratitude might make up for her earlier crabbiness.

She wasn’t terribly hungry, but she forced herself to eat every bite. As rations had grown tighter each day, Bash tried to hide the fact that he was taking even less than his allotted portions so Maggie could have more—she, who had stolen onto their ship and by rights should not have any portion at all, while he was still recuperating and needed every ounce of nourishment. When questioned, he pretended not to know a thing about it, but she knew.

The others had not lately been so kind. They glared daggers at her across their bowls of gruel. She may have spotted the Whale and saved Bash’s ear, but the Whale held neither treasure nor food, and the ear could not be eaten, and now she was just another mouth they could ill afford to feed.

If they saw land before they all starved to death, they’d probably vote her off the ship whether a port was available or not. She couldn’t bear to think about ports and ships and Scotland. She wasn’t sure she could bring herself to leave.

She squeezed Bash’s hand, and he rubbed his thumb along the back of her knuckles.

“How are you?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine. Promise.”

“I’ll go with you tonight,” he said.

She was glad of the offer. She wanted him there, but he shouldn’t be climbing yet, not with his head still leeched and bandaged. “You don’t have to do that. I’m capable.”

“You’re more than capable, darlin’, but I miss the tops. No argument. Cabin boys mustn’t get cheeky with the sailing master.”

He must be feeling better to put his bossy breeks on like that, and Maggie liked to think maybe it wasn’t just the tops he was missing.

When the bells rang, they made their way to the main mast and began to climb just as they had on her second week aboard only seven weeks ago now.

“It’s not just a ghost ship tying the captain up in knots, is it?” she asked as they huddled side by side on the platform, looking out into a star-covered night.

“No,” he said after a moment. “Ghosts aren’t real. But the navy is.”

Maggie didn’t know what to say to that. An encounter with the military could mean death for them all. As pirates, the navy was their natural sworn enemy. And just as she’d known it when the Butcher wanted to cut off Bash’s beautiful ear, Maggie knew she couldn’t lose him. Whatever was coming, she was powerless to stop it, but she could also never allow it to happen. The Royal Navy couldn’t have him. He was hers.

“Wind’s picking up,” he sighed with palpable relief.

That had to be a good sign, didn’t it?

A wave of cramping crashed against her belly, making her knees almost buckle and she hunched forward holding onto the railing for life. In an instant, Bash’s arm was around her.

“I wish you’d tell me what ails you,” he said.

But ladies did not speak of their courses with gentlemen, not even their fathers or their husbands. Most especially not with pirates.