Aboard the Lady May Ch. 04

Luke swore, bowing his head. "Where?" he asked.

"I—I'm not sure. Somewhere on the bunk, maybe. Or still...stuck in him." She shuddered, swallowed thickly, repeated, "I don't know."

Luke's fingers gentled on her arms, began to stroke again rather than squeeze. Exhausted, Jamie leaned forward until their foreheads touched, then sighed, resting against him.

"It's bad," she said.

"Yes," Luke returned.

"They're going to hang me."

"No!" He spoke with more adamancy than conviction but hoped Jamie couldn't tell the difference. He released her shoulders to search out her hands, then joined them with his, linked their fingers together. "The four of us," he said, knowing there was no need to specify who exactly he meant. "We'll sit down together. We'll make a plan. Peter's plenty devious, and Felix will rip apart the Ariadne bare-handed before he lets anything bad happen to you."

Jamie shook her head, rolling her brow against Luke's. "You shouldn't," she said. "None of you should. You'll get in trouble, and—"

"No," Luke interrupted, but gently. "We keep the men content," he said. "Without us, they're like to rebel at the first bit of trouble, and the captain knows it."

Jamie could think of nothing to say to that, and Luke seemed content to sit with her for as long as she wanted. He wasn't Felix, but he was still nice to be with. His hands were strong, and he smelled warmly of gruel and weak grog. Despite her distress, the scents teased her empty stomach, which promptly began to roil and growl noisily.

Luke squeezed her hands once then sat up. Flashing a brief, reassuring smile, he glanced around for her forgotten breakfast, spotted it on the floor by the bundle of clothes he'd brought. He winced.

"It'll be stone cold now," he said. "Like trying to choke down wet cloth."

Withdrawing his hands from Jamie's, he stood and went to retrieve the porridge. He drizzled in honey, a bit of milk, stirred vigorously, then tasted it, grimaced, added more honey. Seemingly satisfied, he returned to Jamie, handed her the spoon and bowl and milk.

"East fast," he said. "It's not so bad."

While he set about readying her clothes, Jamie raised a cautious spoonful to her mouth. She tried a bit, decided Luke was right. It was sweet but cold, the texture fibrous, sticky and hard to swallow. Her stomach, though, wasn't discriminating and welcomed the food, demanded more. She obliged her body's desire until she was satisfied, then looked up to find Luke watching her. She tipped the bowl forward, raised one brow, asked silently if she had eaten enough. Luke nodded, pleased. She'd gotten more down that he might have managed.

Slowly sipping milk, Jamie looked up over the cup's pewter rim. Luke was frowning, picking at a loose thread on a piece of clothing, and she almost smiled, recognizing the same intent expression he'd worn while tending her injuries the day before. He was so earnest, and he seemed so certain that between the three of them, he, Felix and Peter would think of some way to save her. While she didn't yet feel anything even approaching hope, Jamie trusted them to try, to do their best, and at the very least to keep her company in the last weeks or months of her life, however long she had left.

Although she was troubled by the thought that Felix might come to care for her and then be forced to watch her go to her death, she knew the concern wouldn't be enough to keep her away from him—or him from her, if Luke's words were true, and Felix did indeed want her for reasons other than the fact of her femininity and the compulsion he felt to guard all those he perceived as weaker than himself. If their situations were reversed, and he were the one who was likely to die, Jamie knew, despite the fact that she'd not yet known him two full days, she would do anything in her power to protect him and, in case of failure, she'd be certain to spend every second with him she could. She didn't want to hurt Felix, but she'd been lonely for so long, and she was selfish enough to hope he'd feel the same way.

Jamie gulped down the last of her milk and squared her shoulders, decided she'd moped and hidden herself for long enough. She thumped down her empty cup, and Luke looked up, one eyebrow arched.

Jamie met his gaze squarely. "What happens next?" she asked, feeling stronger than she had in days.

Luke nodded toward the oversized sailors' slops Peter had cut down for her to wear, the navy shirt and brown trousers to be paired with her thick canvas vest. "First," he said, "you get dressed. Then we go abovedeck. And afterward, the four of us will have that talk."

"Afterward?" Jamie said. "After what?"

Luke squared his shoulders, turned his head to look out the open porthole. His throat moved for a moment before he spoke. "After Thaniel's funeral," he said.

* * *

Peter volunteered to sew the shroud. He was quickest with a needle, and in the August heat the body was already starting to stink. Working steadily, he didn't think of the man inside the sailcloth—the tales he'd told, the friend he'd been. Peter had done this chore many times before, and he found it easiest to pretend the body belonged to a stranger. For a while, for the first months he'd been on board the Lady May, in his mind every corpse became a man he hated—men who had used him roughly, without consent, with no remorse. He'd sewn the last stitch through each nose with enjoyment until, one by one, he'd buried them all.

Now, however, they were nobody. Unknown faces. Empty slates. People he couldn't pick out of a crowd. Felix said it was better that way, easier, less wearing on the soul. Over time Peter had come to agree. Whether it was love or hate, friendship or animosity—he found it too draining to handle the remains of anyone for whom he felt strongly. In lieu of losing a bit of himself along with every body he washed and weighted and watched slip into the sea, he took away their names so they became nothing more than a task to complete, a means of earning his keep, unpleasant for sure but nothing that might plague his sleep or harden his heart.

Despite the speed with which he worked, his stitches were small and straight, evenly spaced, perfect Xs in black waxed thread marching up the front of the salt-stiff fabric. He might disavow for the moment who the man had been in life, but Peter saw no reason to not sew him up snugly. Even a stranger deserved to be tucked in tight one final time.

He set the seam up the chin and over the mouth, looped around to cover the brow, then found himself staring at the strong, beaked nose that poked through the open hole. His hand began to shake. "Jesus." Peter breathed, "Sweet swiving Christ."

Eyes closed, he saw Thaniel drunk on purloined bourbon, laughing, reaching up to playfully pull his own nose. "Had to go to sea." He'd grinned. "With a great neb like this, what real lass would have me?" Then in a singsong, "Aye, boys, the sea—She's the only lady for me."

A hard, warm hand closed over his cold one, and Peter jumped, his eyes flying open.

"I can finish if you'd like," Felix said, having suddenly appeared by his side.

Peter was pleased to see Felix, glad to know he was forgiven for his blunder that morning in thoughtlessly exposing Jamie's nakedness to anyone who happened past the hold. Adamant, though, he shook his head. "No," he said. "You've worked on him enough already."

Felix winced, and Peter realized how his words might be heard—as an accusation that Felix had played a role in Thaniel's death.

"I didn't mean that how it sounded," Peter whispered, unable to look at the older man. "I just...you sewed his leg back on. You shouldn't have to—"

"I know," Felix said, nodding. He squeezed Peter's hand once before releasing it, then stepped away, used his boot tip to kick at the clotted sand thrown down to absorb the blood on the floor. "He didn't scream when I took it off." His voice was low but even. "Seemed only right to give it back." Felix glanced up then, flashed a sad smile at Peter. "Thaniel'd not want to be hopping in heaven."

Suppressing a shudder at the sound of the dead man's name, Peter decided instead to cling to the moment of levity. He snorted, asked, "And what makes you think they'd be letting him in heaven? A right blackguard he was, with more sins on his soul than I've got pinpricks on my fingers. Make a surly angel, he would."

Felix looked away as Peter reached to set the last stitch. "Aye," he said. "You're likely right. Man like Thaniel'd be plenty bored with heaven in a sennight or less."

* * *

The men all stared at Jamie on her first venture abovedeck—as she'd expected they would—but with more curiosity than the speculation she had anticipated. She was dressed in her new clothes, covered from chin to toe, and Luke had assured her she looked thoroughly unappealing. He'd meant it as a joke, Jamie thought, but she'd been pleased by his comment. With her breasts unbound for the first time since they'd budded at age thirteen, she felt vulnerable, oddly exposed, as if anyone might glance at her once and know instantly she was a woman.

In an attempt to regain some sense of security, she'd started to shove her short red curls under the knit cap Luke had brought, but he'd snatched it away, refused to let her wear it. When she'd objected, demanding he give it back, Luke had mumbled something about the funeral, how hats were forbidden during religious service. Jamie'd conceded that was true, but he wouldn't look at her, and she knew propriety wasn't Luke's true excuse. For some reason he wanted her hair uncovered, she just had no idea what his reason might be.

Luke had ushered her through a maze of narrow hallways, up ladders, past cabins—the two of them moving like minnows along with the rest of the crew—until they'd finally emerged on the top deck. There'd been light in the small hold from the single porthole, but being fully exposed to the sun for the first time in days felt to Jamie like she'd returned to the world after suffering from a protracted illness. Everything seemed a little too bright, too sharp, too loud, and she found herself clinging to a bit of Luke's shirt as he weaved through the thick press of bodies, having easily spotted Felix due to the older man's superior height.

Jamie was used to being pinched and prodded by the men with whom she sailed, but excepting the sidelong looks almost everyone directed her way, she progressed through the throng seemingly unnoticed and wholly unmolested. She thought perhaps this was her first glimpse of what it meant to be under Felix's protection, and she found the benefits not nearly so insignificant as he'd made them seem. He may have been incapable of keeping her only for himself, but if she could expect to pass hours at a time without being mauled or manhandled, it would be a vast improvement over the constant dread she had previously endured on the Ariadne as well as the other ships aboard which she'd served.

She felt Felix's eyes on her the whole time they made their way through the crowd, knew he was able to focus on her easily because of her bright hair, but once she and Luke reached the spot where he stood with Peter by the starboard gunwale, he seemed unwilling—or unable—to look at her. She remembered then he still thought she was furious with him. While she was annoyed that he'd prescribed treatment for her past without consulting her, and that he'd then allowed her to chase him away without explaining, leaving her hurt and confused until Luke had helped her to understand, she thought this day would be unbearable enough without her heaping more guilt onto his broad but already overloaded shoulders.

Counting on the press of sixty-odd bodies as well as Luke's strategic stance at her back to hide her actions from the surrounding sailors, Jamie sidled up to Felix. She thought holding his hand might be too conspicuous, but she was unable to keep from touching him altogether and settled instead for wrapping one hand partway around his thick forearm.

He tensed at her first touch, and Jamie felt a shudder run through his big body. She squeezed his arm reassuringly, then glanced up to flash him a discreet smile. He was looking down at her, some unnamable emotion burning bright in his eyes, and Jamie felt the arm she clutched turn until his palm was pressed to her thigh. His fingers curved to her worsted-covered leg as hers were around his forearm, and all the while she found herself unable to look away from his eyes. She didn't think she'd noted their color before. They were brown but, like his hair, were shot through with gold and nearly red striations. Like mahogany, Jamie thought, cut crosswise to display the grain and then shined to a high gloss. She didn't know how she had failed to notice something so lovely.

The captain began to pray for Thaniel St. James, who'd been an able seaman and a good friend to them all, and Felix finally turned away. By then, however, Jamie knew it was too late. He cared for her already, and she was going to hurt him terribly.

* * *

"The hell she is," Felix growled, incensed by Luke's soft pronouncement that Jamie believed she was soon to be hanged.

The four of them—he, Peter, Luke, and Jamie—were back in the hold, arranged in a three-point circle. Jamie had originally seated herself by his side, but Felix was having none of that and had promptly pulled her atop his lap. Then he'd thrust her slightly away and removed the damnably thick canvas vest she wore. He wanted to feel her body through her shirt without the additional layers of unyielding fabric between them. Luke had smiled to see them so close, while Peter flushed, his freckled face filling in red. For himself, Felix wouldn't have cared if they were both mortified. When Jamie had approached him on deck, touched his arm, smiled up at him, allowed him to hold her—as well as he could at the moment—he'd been astonished.

He'd expected her to hate him. If not permanently, for at least a while yet. Even Peter, who, despite his antics and distractibility, was exceptionally bright, had needed a few days to come to grips with what Felix had done and to forgive him. Sensitive as Luke was, it had taken him considerably longer, and even so, Felix had deemed his recovery to be exceptionally quick.

And he had never been lovers with either Peter or Luke. His relationship with Jamie, Felix thought, gave her cause to hold him to a higher standard, to expect more from him than to be treated as just another one of his charges. Instead, his feelings for her had actually caused him to behave worse than he would have otherwise. Not only had he taken his pleasure when he was with her that morning, he'd also allowed her to send him away—he'd allowed the distress he felt for having caused her pain keep him from providing the explanation he knew she needed.

Now, however, none of that seemed to matter. Felix expected it likely would again later, but for the moment he could think of nothing except the tale Luke was quietly relating.

When they'd first arrived in the hold, Jamie had asked Luke to speak for her, pleading her inability to tell the story twice in the same day. He'd complied, and Felix felt his arms contract more tightly around the girl with every word Luke related. All the while, though, Felix was faced with the uncomfortable realization that he was nearly as bothered by what he was hearing as he was by the fact that, for the second time now, Jamie had confided in Luke rather than in him. It was a selfish thought, he knew, and one he had no right to entertain after the way he had treated her that morning, yet it persisted nonetheless. If she had really forgiven him, a small voice inside Felix kept insisting, wouldn't she have sought him out first?

Then Luke told of how she'd stabbed the man, Benton—a man whom Felix was only sorry he'd not killed himself—and he felt Jamie burrow against him. She turned her face into his chest, wrapped her arms around him as far as they would go. She squeezed with more force than Felix had thought possible, and he came to see the true measure of her fear—a fear that ran deeper even than the ones from which he'd already attempted to free her; a fear so debilitating she was only able to function by pretending for hours at a time that it didn't exist.

Luke, Felix realized then, may have been there at a moment when she was no longer able to pretend, but he—Felix—was the one she turned to for comfort, the one she clung to so tightly he could feel her muscles tense and shaking, and the one she continually opened her body to when there was no reason in the world she should either trust him or want to do so. Felix had thought before that he understood the extent of the faith she placed in him, but the more he learned of what she had been through, the more he came to realize that her acceptance of him was nothing short of miraculous.

Luke told of the Ariadne, of the knife left behind, of the slavers who were doubtless after the girl, and it took all of Felix's concentration to keep his touch light, to stroke Jamie's back and hair and sides softly, to keep from crushing his arms tight and bruising her with the force of his fury—a fury that seemed to creep and spread like tendrils of cold seawater beneath his skin, filling him so frozen-full it seemed a wonder he could still move his hands, that they remained brown and supple, that they'd not gone dead numb from the sucking, glacial weight of his rage.

Felix knew anger. He'd felt it before, too many times to count. He'd broken every piece of furniture in his family's house the day he buried the last of his sisters; he'd spilled the lamp oil and lit the torch, then just barely refrained from setting the place aflame. He'd beaten men senseless, killed more than a few. Most who'd deserved it, perhaps some who hadn't. He knew the mindless need to destroy, to maim, to make someone pay.

His violence before, though, had always been artless, impulsive, born of the needs of a moment and gone as soon as the initial blaze faded. What he felt now was ineffably different. It was cold and calculated, both controllable and simultaneously unstoppable—and utterly frustrating because he had no target, no direction, no faces, no names. The last man who'd hurt Jamie was dead, and those who would avenge him were as yet unknowable. Felix knew he could kill a man or two, three, perhaps four, but he couldn't dispatch an entire ship's crew.

"She's sure she's going to be hanged," Luke concluded softly. "And soon."

"The hell she is," Felix growled, and his hand fisted tight in Jamie's hair. He felt her wince, forced his fingers to retract one by one, then allowed her to sit up when she pressed her palms to his chest.

Despite being seated on his lap, Jamie's head still didn't quite reach Felix's chin. She reached up, set one hand on his cheek, and turned his face down toward hers. "They'll find me," she said. "They'll take me. They'll hang me." One side of her soft mouth quirked in a quick half-grimace. She whispered, "You can't stop them."

"The hell I can't!" Felix burst out. "I—"

Jamie moved her hand to cover his mouth, shook her head. "You don't know what they're like," she said. "You think you do, but they're...worse. They're brutal, cruel. And if they can't control their cabin boy, who will trust them to break a slave?" She shook her head again, said, "No. They can't let me go. It's more than just pride. More than revenge. It's business."

Felix grabbed her wrist, removed her hand from his mouth. "Then you have to disappear," he said. "We'll be in Charleston, hopefully before month's end. You can go ashore, travel inland, get away from the ports. You can find a position, be a woman again."

"A position doing what?" Jamie demanded. "Whoring?"