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“Kat!”
Bentwood puts an arm around my waist, trying to pull me around.
For a second, I look back at him.
“Get down,” I order. “He threw a knife.”
A wild scream splits the air, a man’s voice rising high then diminishing like a bird, plunging and far away, so far we barely hear the splash.
“He’s gone overboard!” I shout, but Bentwood is already there, looking over the rail, shouting, “Man overboard! Man overboard!” His cry echoes in a chorus of men shouting from all quarters of the ship.
I can’t quite move, reliving the dangers of the past weeks coupled with this attempt on our lives and cradle my arm, as if that can fight my fears as well as the sharp sting of my wound.
Chaos storms the deck, sailors running from all directions.
“Does anyone see him?” I ask as Bentwood hunkers down beside me.
“It wouldn’t matter, Kat, we’d never be able to stop to get him. He’s gone.” His eyes narrow. “Are you hurt? Let me look.”
He pulls my cloak aside, revealing my nightrail.
“I’m fine…” I try to cover myself, to hide the wound. “Ow! That hurt.”
“You’re bleeding. Why are you bleeding?” he demands, looking about to find the cause.
“It was the knife. It’s not so bad, truly, you just surprised me.”
And a shock of pure white heat seared my shoulder.
“Who would throw a knife?”
I slip my hand over the wound but jerk it back, stunned by the wetness. I see blood, finally feel it leach into the fabric of my gown. It hurts like the very devil.
“Kat.” He fingers the slice in my cape before pulling it around and covering me. “Thank God, your cape took the worst it.”
“Someone threw a knife. Then there was a tussle.” I point to the spot. “You were the target.”
“Me?” He looks back to where I pointed. “Which one went overboard? The one who threw the knife or the one fighting him?”
“I don’t know.” I assumed it was the assailant, but what if it wasn’t? “I wasn’t looking then.”
“This is serious, Kat,” he reminds, as if I hadn’t figured that out.
“He hurt me, not you.”
I moue and he laughs.
“The little girl’s voice doesn’t fit, Kat, best go back to being angry.”
Beast.
“I feel like a little girl,” I whine, just like a little girl hurt and needing comfort, and reach under my wrap to touch my wound again.
“Kat.” Fingers on my chin, he urges me to look at him, not my shoulder. “Remember when Midnight threw you? You landed in a thicket?”
“What has that to do with anything?” I try to shrug him off, but he holds firm. “I was perfectly capable of handling him if a bloody snake hadn’t slithered…”
He’s laughing again. I slap his chest.
