Page 11 of Go, Rogue

“Rogers,” he says in lieu of answering. “Gather the men to inspect the mast.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Rogers hurries away, shooing any roaming sailors in front of him as he goes. McGann had been slightly worried about hiring the man on as the first mate because he’d never sailed with him before, but there wasn’t much he could do about it after spending four years on dry land. He had to take what sailors he could. But watching him now, McGann thinks Rogers was the right choice. Good. One less thing to worry about.

“What’s wrong with the mast?” Catherine asks, returning his attention to her. Which is where it ought to be. He definitely has to worry about her.

“Nothing.”

“Then why did you send the men over there?”

“Because I do not want them peering up your skirts, Menace. Or have you not realized that’s the position you’ve put yourself in? You cannot be on this ship full of men.”

“Of course I can. I can be here as well as any of you. If you could just—well. As I said before, if you could just help me out.”

McGann sighs, fighting the urge to leave her right where she is. Trapped and unable to get into any more trouble. But he can’t. Of course he can’t.

He extends his hand down to hers and pulls, but she doesn’t budge. He pulls again, harder, which only elicits a strangled, “Ow!” from her.

“You’re well and truly stuck.” He tilts his head and stares. “Like a damned cat with its head in a banister. How did you even manage it?” He looks closer. “And why are you wearing my peacoat?”

“I was cold. And I was in a hurry because you were yelling at me. And—” Catherine’s brow furrows. “My stays are loose in the back, and I had to cover them. It’s easier to loosen them, it seems, than to do them back again.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

She has no idea what a man’s mind might do with the idea of loosened stays. He’s certain of it. He stifles the groan rising in his throat and pushes away the pictures his imagination is helpfully providing.

“Are you telling me that you didn’t bring any other clothes except for what you’re wearing? Ye’re still in yer wee blasted wedding gown, Menace!”

“I may not have planned this out as thoroughly as I’d have liked.” She pauses. “Did you know your Gaelic comes out stronger when you’re upset about something?”

“It doesno’!”

Damnit.

Now he’s yelling at her. He doesn’t want to, although, he reminds himself, he has every right to. The bloody lass is a stowaway on his ship. But he summons every ounce of will he has and steps away from her. Otherwise, he’s afraid he might strangle her. Or kiss her. Or rip her out of the hatch and toss her overboard. Maybe all of those things at once if he could manage it. He’s dexterous; he could probably manage it.

“I’ll tell you what’s going to happen now,” he says slowly instead. “I’m going below, where I’ll help you out of the bind you’ve got yourself in. Then I’ll give you a single pair of trousers and a single shirt, which you will wear for the next ten days until we reach Boston. You will stay in my cabin. You will stay out of trouble. You will not touch a single thing aboard this ship. You will not speak to the crew. You will do nothing but eat, sleep, and follow my directions. Do you understand?”

“I’m already in your cabin.” Catherine’s damnable blue eyes are twinkling in a way he tries not to notice. “So, in that matter we’re in perfect accord.” But then she furrows her brow again. “It will only take ten days? It took Violet six weeks to cross the Atlantic.”

“The Elphame has the power of steam, lass. Makes us the fastest on the water.”

He stares as her expression changes again and grows pensive, and then asks in spite of himself, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just didn’t realize I’d have a new life so soon. Imagine it. I’ll be a Yankee in only ten days, just like Mother and Aunt Nora and Violet. It’s exciting, if a little daunting.”

The smile she gives him this time is the real one; the one that makes her eyes brighten with mischief and crinkle at the sides. He loves that smile, Elphame help him, although he abhors what she just said.

That she’s headed to America. Alone. Where any goddamned thing could just up and happen to her.

Not that you care, you daft cove.

He doesn’t. He can’t. Catherine West is not his problem, and he has no intention of letting her become so.

“Put that grin away, Menace,” he says, distinctly aware it’s doing something to his insides that it oughtn’t to be doing. “Or I’ll throw you in the goddamn brig.”