Page 24 of Go, Rogue

Chapter

10

McGann’s back aches from the hard boards on the deck where he slept. He could have hung a hammock anywhere last night, but he chose the main deck because he wanted to look at the stars and feel the bracing cold.

He wanted to remember why he loved the water and the outdoors. And why he chose this life for himself. In equal measure, he wanted to forget Lady Catherine West, asleep in his cabin below. In his bed.

This morning, the main deck is cold and uncomfortable and he wakes early. Even before the morning watch begins. And by the time the sun has fully risen, he’s already inspected the ratlines; greeted the cabin boy, cook, and first watch; and boiled enough steaming hot water for a bath for Catherine.

It’s only a hip bath—they cannot afford the loss of a full tub’s worth of fresh water—but it’s a bath nonetheless. He drags it into her room himself and then brushes his fingers lightly over her sleeping shoulder to wake her before letting himself out.

And now he must wait, like a small boy in leading strings, for her to awaken fully and find his present. To grin at him with the same delight she showed yesterday when he released her from the hatch and she felt the fresh air of the sea on her face for the first time.

He is ridiculous.

He shakes his head. This has to end. Somewhere in his body remains the last shreds of self-preservation, and he will find them. Damn it. And the best way to do that, he knows, is to throw himself into the business of captaining this ship.

Lucky for him, there is no shortage of duties for him to attend to. He turns his attention to the navigation charts. He had the sense last night, as he lay staring at the stars, that their direction was off. Not by much, but as he lay in the cold and the dark and tried to think of anything but Lady Catherine West a deck below in his bed, he noticed something.

He opens his charts to investigate.

“Captain,” the first mate greets him.

“Rogers,” McGann replies, not lifting his head from where he has bent it over the maps. He is correct; their navigation is off.

“Where is the helmsman?”

“I believe James is at breakfast, sir. Have we drifted?”

McGann doesn’t answer. He doesn’t think it’s drift. But if it isn’t, it’s negligence or worse, and the thought unsettles him. Has time ashore dulled his bearings at sea? It’s unlike him to be paranoid or overly suspicious of his crew, but…

“Captain?” Rogers continues, “is something amiss?”

It’s a spur of the moment decision that makes him mutter, “Nay, all’s well.”

He knows he should trust his first mate with everything: his life, the life of his crew, Catherine. But he doesn’t know Rogers as well as he might. The man came highly credentialed, but he hasn’t ever sailed with him before, which is the only credentialing McGann cares about.

“We’re in good shape this morning,” Rogers reports. “Lines, rigging, deck, and hold are all in order. Nine days to port.”

McGann nods. “Good.” But Rogers makes no move to leave him. “Is there something else?”

“The lady, Captain.”

“What about her?”

“The men will want to know why she’s aboard. What should I tell them?”

“You’ll tell them naught all. It’s not their business why she’s here.”

“It may be better,” Rogers says carefully, “to tell them something so they aren’t left to speculate.”

McGann turns to him then. “What would they be speculating about?” He already knows what Rogers is implying, and the idea makes him want to pick the man up and toss him overboard.

“That she’s your—ahem…” Rogers pauses and McGann glowers at him. “Wife,” Rogers finishes meekly.

They both know he’d been about to say mistress. Or worse, doxie.

But the look on McGann’s face must have made Rogers reconsider that statement, because he says, “It would be better for everyone if you said she was your wife.”