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At least she thought she perceived that.
On second thought, shehopedshe perceived that.
Deciding to test her theory, she asked, “Is that the greeting you always use when someone approaches you?”
He turned his dark stare toward her, appraising her. After several seconds of silence, he grinned. “You are amajana. Maybe we should call youushakii, too!”
It took her a minute to translate his melodious accent.“Majana?”
“Aye, it means fine child, in my language.”
“Oh,” she said, making a quick note on her pad. “What language is that?”
“Kiswahili.”
Serenity sank to her knees on the deck next to him. “Could you spell that?”
He did and she quickly took notes, then offered him her hand. “My name is Serenity James.”
His huge, callused hand swallowed hers as he shook it. “They call me Ushakii, which means courage.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Ushakii.”
“Please,majana, call me simply Ushakii.” Now there was no mistaking the kindness in his eyes.
Grateful his malice had melted away, she watched as he returned to splitting the rope with a huge iron needle. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“I am splicing the rope, then rewrapping it to make it stronger.”
“Is this what you do mostly on board the ship?”
His smile widened. “No, I have many duties. This is just the one that currently needs to be done. We will need more ropes for the storm that is to come.” He stopped his work and watched her make more notes. “What is ityoudo,majana?”
“I’m taking notes to write a story about Captain Drake and his crew.”
His look spoke loudly in the ancient male domination language—What, you female, write?
“It’s for my father’s paper,” she explained, and then wished she could bite her tongue off. There was nothing wrong with writing for her father. Jonathan did it.
Yet she’d always felt the need to supply that information like some sort of ready-made excuse as to howshe, a woman, could get a story published. It should be enough that she was a good writer andthatwas why she was printed.
But it wasn’t.
Refusing to let it daunt her, she shrugged away the sudden lump in her throat and pursued her story like any man would. “Have you really killed over a hundred men?”
His deep laugh rumbled like thunder out of his chest. “Between us,majana, no. But it is what I tell the others. The mark of a man is not so much what he is, but what others think him to be.”
She pondered his words for a moment. That was the motto that her father lived and died by—protect your reputation at all cost.
Though she might hate the hypocrisy, she knew it was true. People’s opinions did matter, regardless of truth. In private, a person could be the most evil of people, cruel, vicious, but so long as the public never knew, then that person would be touted as a saint.
“Then I shall put you down as having killed over two hundred men.” She made a quick note. “Why is it you wish people to think you’re a cold-blooded murderer?”
He shrugged. “What can I say? It makes them leave me and mine alone.”
Serenity frowned at his words. “But isn’t it lonely to always be left alone?”
He looked up at her, his eyes as wise as a sage. “A man can be in a crowd always and still be alone,majana. I like my own company. You like your own company, too, I can tell. I think you know what you want.”
