The Maid and the Cook Ch. 02

His face was mere inches from hers now, and she clutched at the fabric of his shirt, lest she fall backward, off balance as she was. Brigit's gaze flitted from his teasing eyes to his mouth and she swallowed to wet her own throat.

"No, we wouldn't want that now, would we?" Her voice came as a breath just before they came together at once, each relieved to find themselves again part of a kiss.

It was the same as yesterday: searing, heart-stopping, lovely. She could feel in the pull of his palms at her waist and the low needful sounds he made that said he, like Brigit, had been dancing around the idea of this very moment all morning, each unsure of how to approach the other again.

None of that mattered now, though, and they indulged in long moments of simple, delicious sensation.

Not a thread of tension was left in her when they eventually parted, and neither could wipe their smile away. Bone nudged upward at her chin with a knuckle as he took half a step back to let her breathe.

"Besides," he said, eyes merry, "the islands are nothing like home. They're beautiful. White sand, sea the colour of a jewel, warm, sweet air."

His words reminded her of another curious thought.

"Where's home, Mr Bone?"

"Aside from decks of The Devil's Luck? Tynemouth, I suppose. Though I haven't been back there in years." The cook rubbed a broad hand over the back of his neck at this and she suspected he didn't want to speak any more on the subject at the moment.

Tynemouth, she thought. It explained the accent, which she was growing to enjoy.

"I seem to have interrupted yer sweeping, Mrs O'Creagh," he pointed out, the trace of mischief still light on his tone, "I'll let ye return to it. I'm off to see Mr Adams — our cooper," he clarified for her when he saw the blank look on her face, "about our fresh water supply. I'll be back before long and we should be nearly ready for noon meal."

"Upon your return then, Mr Bone," she said, retrieving the broom from where it had fallen. She wanted to go with him, but it would seem silly to trail him through the ship wherever he went like a lost lamb, so she took up her sweeping again.

"Brigit," he acknowledged her with a warm nod as he mounted the stair and disappeared up through the hatch.

* * * *

She'd been busying herself about the wide planks of the galley floor some several minutes, gathering a neat pile of crumbs and dust together in one central spot, when she heard footsteps on the stair. Brigit looked up from the rhythm of her passes with the broom to see a man descending into the galley.

Mopping at her brow with the back of her hand, she stood straight and paused in her work, waiting for the sailor to see her there.

Now what does this one want?

By the time he reached the bottom step, his eyes had adjusted to the dimmer light of the galley and when they swung around and landed on Brigit he grinned.

"Ah so here's the new cook's mate. You that lady's maid?" His lopsided smile split his face wider and he pushed the sleeves of his shirt back one at a time to reveal his forearms as he stepped further into the space.

"No longer, it seems," she answered him, taking up her sweeping again with a wary eye for the inquisitive pirate.

Brigit imagined he might be a handful of years older than she was, and solidly built, if not nearly so vast as Mr Bone. His skin was surprisingly pale for a man of the sea, and watery blue eyes appraised her above a crude smirk. Lank, unwashed dark hair fell about his face at his cheekbones and jaw, and he shoved it back out of his eyes with a cocky hand.

"Name's William Platt," he said, making a gesture with his fingers near his forehead as though doffing an invisible hat. His eyes were on her as she moved and she tried to hide her complete lack of approval.

So, he's come to stare at the cook's new pet, has he?

"Brigit O'Creagh," she answered. Politeness seemed the best approach, forced though it was. No need to irritate a man when she didn't know if he had a temper.

"Where's our Mr Bone then?" he asked glancing about.

"Off to see the cooper."

She allowed her work to take her around to the opposite side of the cutting block, cautiously positioning the large piece of furniture between her and this Platt.

He stood there eyeing her, weight on one leg and the other bent, thumbs hooked into the top edge of his breeches, all but pointing at his groin with his other fingers.

"Cap'n has that widow of yours locked away in his cabin, you know. Don't think he wants to share with the rest of us, Miss Brigit."

Miss Brigit? Miss? What did he take her for? The ship's new whore?

The first kindling of anger flared across her cheeks at his rude address, a fact Platt appeared to enjoy.

"No, I don't imagine he would." Her retort had the beginnings of cheek to it. Now she was entirely ready for this smug pirate to be away from the galley.

He sauntered over to the block and rested his weight on the heels of his palms on either corner, eyes lewdly raking over her bosom as she stood there.

"Mr Bone's a generous man," he continued his taunt, leaning forward, "perhaps he'll see the rest of the crew gets a fair portion."

Brigit was standing still at this point, both hands with a tight grip on the broom handle, knuckles flexed. She'd been raised in a household with four brothers. While she wasn't keen on starting a fight, she bloody well knew how to finish one.

Just you make one move, William Platt.

The man wasn't entirely unpleasant to look at, she could admit, but in the span of a few minutes she'd already had enough of this arrogant prat. He'd have a scrap on his hands if he thought he was going to be getting any sort of "portion" of her.

"Mrs O'Creagh," a third voice joined them, along with the thump-step she'd come to know over the last day, "I've just heard that — Platt? What do ye want down here?"

Bone turned at the bottom of the stair and stepped into the galley. Her grip on the broom relaxed.

"Just thought I'd see if anything new had been added to the menu," the younger sailor said, eyes still plainly assessing the new potential for sport on the opposite side of the cutting block.

"Whatever gave ye that idea, Mr Platt?" The cook moved to stand just behind Brigit, one of his heavy hands rising to cover her shoulder in a possessive manner.

Some series of looks flew between the two men, Bone's end of which she couldn't see, and Platt finally shrugged at the cook and stepped back from the block, the mischievous grin still plastered across his pale face.

"Only thought I'd check, Bone," he chuckled, stepping casually back toward the stair. "A man never knows."

"Well now he does," the big man behind her said as the younger sailor mounted the steps. He gave her shoulder another squeeze.

"And Platt," he called after the other man who turned back for a moment at his words, "make sure the rest of the crew knows as well. I don't expect to see anyone else down here making inquiries about the 'menu'. Ye follow?"

"All right, Bone, all right," he said with a smirk, putting up his hands in mock surrender before he made his way up through the hatch.

She angled her face to look up at the cook then, and he narrowed his eyes in the direction of the stair, shaking his head. "Bloody Platt."

His curse made her giggle and she turned to face him as he lowered his eyes to hers.

"Look what happens," he said, tracing a knuckle along the side of her throat, "I leave a sweet unattended for but a few minutes and here they come, ready to get their hands into the honey jar. Are ye alright, Brigit?"

"I'm fine Mr Bone," she laughed, arching her neck against his touch, "though Mr William Platt may have grown a lump on his head if you'd been any much longer." She gestured with the broom, and the deep sound of his laughter vibrated pleasantly through her chest.

"Perhaps I should have waited then! Now let's call these animals down for noon meal, pretty girl, I think this porridge is about ready."

* * * *

Platt.

John shook his head to himself as he ladled out porridge to the line of sailors, keeping an eye on their hands to see that they didn't take more than the single piece of tack each as they passed.

Not a quarter of an hour he'd been gone and already one of them had come sniffing around like a dog looking for scraps. He had no specific dislike for William Platt, the man was an able member of the crew, pulled his weight and minded the quartermaster as far as John could see. But today he'd wanted to cuff the bastard and haul him out of the galley by his ear. He stole a glance at Brigit, who'd taken up her position filling the men's mugs with beer again.

If he wanted to remember a time when he'd been this territorial with a woman he'd have to go back to his earliest days at sea, which were a very long time ago. Still a whelp of a lad, barely old enough to be called a man, he'd foolishly imagined a girl would wait for him all the long months while he sailed. He'd learned that lesson quickly enough, and it had been 'pay for affection' from then on out. Best not to become too fond.

Today, though, he watched with interest as pockets of quiet welled up amid the crew's usual raucous meal time banter while they stood in line for their food. Eyes would flit to the maid, and then back to him, and one deckhand would bend to another's ear and mumble something low and inaudible.

Yes, Platt had spread the word indeed. There would be some stir that not only did the cook not intend to share his unexpected bounty, but that John Bone, usually far less enthusiastic about women than the younger members of the crew, was taking this much of an interest at all.

He dished out several more servings of porridge, greeting the crew as he went.

"Mr George. Winters. Mr Osbourne, Mr Grey. And where's Hezekiah? Isn't he on first watch today?"

"Ha! Don't worry about me, Mr Bone!" the asked-after bosun's voice boomed from the stair as he entered the galley, "You know I won't be missing a meal!"

Yes, this part of his day was as it had been for years. But other parts?

The maid had a small smile for him when he looked her way and he felt a different sort of hunger churn inside him. The idea of Platt laying hands on her had made him miserable, but worse was the idea of her letting him. The deckhand was a good many years younger than he was, surely more pleasing for a woman her age to look at.

He'd been so relieved to hear she'd been about to crack him over the head for his troubles. Simply because she'd accepted his kisses for a night and called his name didn't mean she'd given herself over entirely. There was an entire crew of men here, most younger than he, and none missing part of a limb.

For God's sake, John, be easy. None of the men have actually touched her, and ye haven't seen her looking at any of them as though she'd want it.

The captain, he suspected, wasn't having any of these sorts of problems with that blonde widow of his. Not if any of the rumours he'd already heard held any water. He sighed to himself. Men on a ship were worse gossips than any circle of wives ever was.

John straightened himself, stretching his back. The line of men was finally thinning. Soon enough he'd have Brigit O'Creagh to himself again, though what sort of promise that held he wasn't yet sure.

* * * *

Brigit was ready to admit she'd rather liked Bone coming to her defence against the crude advances of the far-too-sure-of-himself Platt, whether she'd truly needed his help or not.

She spooned down her porridge in great mouthfuls, ignoring its bland taste in the wake of the robust appetite she'd built up from the morning's work. Bone stood at the cutting block, scratching away at a piece of parchment with a nubby quill he'd produced from one of the cabinets opposite the stove.

"What are you writing?" she asked, moving to wash her now empty bowl.

"List of what we need at Nassau," he said, appearing to review whatever it was he'd written.

It was some small surprise that he could write, and she decided to ask him sometime who had taught him. Brigit certainly couldn't write, other than her own name, which her mother had painstakingly taught her.

She watched his thick fingers carefully fold the paper in two before he turned back to the same cabinet and locked list, quill, and inkwell inside with a small key on a thin leather cord he brought out from inside his shirt. The key reminded her of something Platt had said, and now that she was no longer distracted by having to thwart his attentions, her curiosity reawakened.

"Mr Bone," she began, "may I ask you a question?"

"That depends, lass," he grinned over at her, "if I answer right, will I have another of those kisses from ye?"

Brigit gave him a look of amusement, but took his tease as permission. "Earlier, Mr Platt said something about Mrs Collingwood being locked up in the captain's room, and that he didn't want to 'share' with the rest of the crew. Is ... sharing ... with the crew ... is that what usually happens?" The end of her question came out as more of a quiet squeak than she'd intended and she silently cursed herself for sounding so afraid.

You're right to be afraid. What do you think you could do if a ship full of criminals was determined to have a go? Run away?

"Well," he said, appearing to take her seriously, "it's not as if we have women on the ship at all regular-like for a man to know what 'usually' happens. In fact, I can't think of any before the widow and yerself."

He pulled off the heavy apron he'd worn to serve the meal, hanging it on a peg that jutted from the wall near the pantry door. She pressed him, sure she needed an answer but unsure how to ask.

"It was a welcome thing for you to chase Platt off today, Mr Bone, but ... will I ... I mean, does your word carry weight? The other men, will they ... will I be expected to ...?"

"They'll listen if they want to eat!" He laughed, tugging at the twin braids that fell over his chest. "No, Brigit, I suspect Mr Platt was merely trying his luck this morning. Leave a fine piece of temptation out where men can find it and that's what happens."

Brigit chafed a bit as she bent to stack the unused plates back beneath the cutting block. No man had reason to be calling her a fine piece of anything. It was one thing to enjoy the attention she was receiving from this cook, but quite another to start imagining she was anything other than the first available female to be thrown in among a deprived group of men.

Well, second available female.

"Do you think the widow is ... is being treated well?" She couldn't help but be at least moderately concerned. The widow likely never had to deal with men of this ilk before now. Haughty and stiff though the woman was, she didn't deserve to be used badly.

"Oh, I don't think she'll be hurt," he replied, eyes focused somewhere distant as though he looked elsewhere for a proper way to answer her question. "The captain has a reputation, but I don't imagine he'll do anything yer widow doesn't already want done."

Now that was a cryptic way to put it. And Black Edmund, captain of The Devil's Luck did have a reputation, though more for merciless looting of ships than anything to do with women. Still ...

"Beside all that," Bone said, breaking into her thoughts, "I don't think Mr Till would let her come to any harm. He'll make sure the captain keeps his head about him." He said this in a way that seemed as though it was meant to be reassuring, but it only confused her further.

"Who's Mr Till?"

"Quartermaster."

"Oh. But how will he know what the captain and Mrs Collingwood get up to?" She moved to gather some of the remaining pieces of ship's biscuit up and made to return them to their bin in the pantry. Bone took up what was left and followed along behind her.

"Ah. Well. Captain Blackburn and Mr Till are like brothers. They share everything."

Brigit nearly dropped her armful of the hard bread when her mind put together what the cook was trying to tell her.

"You mean they ...? I mean ... both of them?" Her mouth hung partly open as she put away the hard rations of bread, one by one, looking back at Bone for confirmation.

"Probably." His eyes didn't meet hers, and he looked, oddly enough, embarrassed to be telling her this. She couldn't keep her thoughts to herself.

"That poor woman! I don't think she has any idea what to do with one man, let alone two!"

Some small piece of something had worked its way into her slipper, and Brigit leaned against a tall stack of several bags of what was probably grain to stand on one foot and pull off the shoe opposite to shake it out.

"Well I wasn't there, lass, but I did hear from some of the men who were on watch last night and I don't think that'll be a problem." He chuckled as he put the last of his own share of the tack away. She wiggled her shoe back on and looked up at him.

"What makes you say that?"

He turned a merry eye her way. "Some of the crew who passed by the door to the captain's rooms heard yer widow, ah ... 'enjoying' Mr Till and the captain's company, if ye will." He grinned at this, pleased with his turn of phrase. "Said she was making a fine lot of noise, too. Though I don't think she sounded at all as lovely as ye did last night, pretty girl."

Bone winked conspiratorially at this, but Brigit had had enough. She folded her arms across her chest and met his eye.

I'll not be mocked.

"Don't call me that, John Bone. I'm no man's 'pretty girl', and you know it."

He looked crestfallen, and for a moment she winced at her own harshness.

"I'm sorry, Mrs O'Creagh. I thought we —"

"No!" She wouldn't play these games. "I'm happy for us to ... to have our fun down here, Mr Bone. You seem an honourable man, and I don't know that I expected that from a pirate, but I'll have an end to all the 'pretty' and 'lovely', if you please. I know what I am, and I know what I'm not."

His face grew dark at her words, and he drew himself up, taking a step toward her. Not the reaction she'd been expecting. She flattened herself against the sacks of grain.

"What do ye mean, ye know what ye are?" His voice was low now, menacing. Brigit stood her ground.

"Don't play with me, Mr Bone. You don't have a face that looks like mine without being told about it. It's a wonder the crew had any appetite at all after my serving them."

For a man his size, he certainly could move. In a breath he was on her, pinning her against the stack of sacks. Blue eyes flashed and he gripped her chin between his thumb and forefinger, brows drawn down in anger as he towered over her.

"Don't ye ever — ever! — let me hear ye speak about yerself that way again!" His words came in a growl. She'd not seen temper like this yet from the man, and it made her want to cower. His eyes searched hers for an excruciating moment and Brigit felt something inside herself break.

"John, I —"

"Which one of us is perfect, Brigit?" He rushed to cut her off, thumping his peg solidly against the deck to make his point.

In the space of a breath she went from cynical to welling with tears. The man was missing a leg, and she'd been grumbling about her looks. She couldn't meet his eyes and her gaze fell to the grim line of his mouth, his beard. His body softened against hers then and he released her chin, though he still kept her trapped between him and the grain. She shifted on her feet, preparing to say something, anything, when he spoke again, less angry this time, but still terribly serious.

"Now you listen to me, Brigit O'Creagh. I know what ye are, as well. You're a bright young woman who wasn't supposed to board a pirate ship. Ye were handed over to a man ye didn't know, a lame cook who's old enough to know better himself, and ye smiled at him all the same."