Eden's Pass (8 page)

She lowered the cup, wiping her mouth on her sleeve to stifle her satisfied sigh. At Iñigo's raised eyebrow, she said, “Yes?”

“I take it the coffee is to your satisfaction?” He flicked open a snowy linen napkin. “And by the by, use this, and not your sleeve. We aren’t barbarians.”

Chagrin heated her from the soles of her feet to the top of her head. “Of course,” she muttered, accepting the napkin.

Iñigo reached for a plate, heaping it with eggs and bacon before passing it to her. “Enjoy.”

She gaped at the mountain of food before her. Her stomach almost roared with hunger and the pain made her forget how she wanted to prove he couldn’t force her to eat. Using knife and fork, she went to work, shoveling as fast as she could bend her elbow. Still, she kept one eye on Iñigo, only to see he was in no hurry. Fresh embarrassment seared through her, even though he’d offered no comment on her lack of manners.

Despite her belly’s urging, she forced herself to slow down and actually chew the fluffy eggs and crispy, smoky bacon. When Iñigo wasn’t looking, though, she still made use of her sleeve, forgetting about her napkin.

When both plates were clean, Iñigo piled them back on the tray and smiled. “Feeling better?”

She nodded, feeling fuller than ever before. It was quite possibly the most she’d ever eaten in one sitting and her pants felt a bit tighter than before. It almost brought a smile to her face. “Aye.”

“Good.” He wiped his mouth one last time and tossed down his napkin. “Now, about your duties for today.”

She bobbed her head. “Of course. What are they?”

“You will spend today topside. If I need you, I’ll come find you, but until then, you will heed Juan Pedro.” He cleared his throat. “However, if I do come for you, you heed me at once. And you
will
obey, without question. Meaning, if I have an itch on my arse and I instruct you to scratch it, you do it without argument. Is that clear?”

She couldn’t help her stare. “You are not serious, are you? About the itch, that is?”

He smiled. “I am not.”

Finn exhaled a breathy, “Thank the Maker.” Meeting his curious stare, she quickly added, “Well, did you expect I would be disappointed?”

He didn’t answer at once. Instead, he sat back, linking his fingers and lowering his hands to rest on the tabletop. “I must admit, I am quite pleased to see how readily you’ve adapted, Finn. It will be no time at all before you’ve your steel in your hands once more.”

Those words sent an excited jolt through her, but she kept it from her voice as she tossed out, “When you decide, I suppose.”

“Oh, most definitely. And until then, you will obey me without question and we shall take things as they come. Is that understood?”

She sighed. “Of course, Captain. As I said, I will be your obedient prisoner. For now.”

“I am glad we are in agreement.” He slapped his palms against the table and pushed his chair back. “Go on up and find Juan Pedro. He will tell you what you are to spend your day doing.”

Chapter Ten

Finn stared down at the marlinspike clutched in her hand, growling from boredom. She’d been given the most mindless of tasks, her boredom made worse since Ennis had apparently been assigned elsewhere. She’d but caught a glimpse of him shortly after coming topside, nothing more, and it was increasingly difficult to ignore her resentment. Somehow, making rope would be far less dull if she had a companion.

Iñigo passed by now and again, but even when she couldn’t see him, he was there. Though his presence made her uncomfortable, she was able to put him out of her mind as she perched on her overturned bucket in the scorching sun, separating a length strand by strand with the sharp tip of the marlinspike before joining it with another length. The tool’s wooden handle was worn smooth, causing it to slip from her grasp when she least expected it. More than once, she’d come damn close to impaling her foot to the deck. After a while, she almost hoped she’d slip. Anything to alleviate the monotony.

She glanced down at marlinspike’s tip. It was sharp, but not overly long. It could be used as a weapon, for it would fit with a nice lethalness between the shoulder blades. She frowned. No, it would be madness, attempting such a thing above deck. Sailors milled about—some repaired damaged sails, some swabbed decks, and still others did exactly as she did. No doubt it would be suicide to attempt anything remotely threatening under such circumstances.

Dropping the new coil of rope into the basket at her feet, she reached for another length, working the marlinspike through the fibers to separate them. Little by little, everything began to ache—her fingers, her back. Still, she was in the sun and the warm air, which made it bearable.

By noon, she cared very little about the sun and the air. Her neck was almost too stiff to support her head. Letting the marlinspike clatter to the deck, she reached up to rub the tight muscles, rolling her head in slow circles in an attempt to work the kinks free.

She winced again at the stiffness cramping her hands. Flexing them slowly, she reached down to press into the webbing between her thumb and forefinger. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d spliced this much rope, for it was a chore Beauregard relegated to a much lower member of his crew, or meted out as punishment for minor infractions.

The sun beat down on her, the heat thickening as the breeze died. Sweat trickled in narrow rivulets along her temples, gluing her hair to her skin in wet strings. Hopefully, Iñigo would order her to bathe again that night, as her scalp itched something terrible from the sticky heat, and sweat ran down between her shoulder blades, down along her spine.

Having had no chance to either discard the bandages or make use of them, they remained inside her tunic. After a while, the rough linen irritated her and she poked them around until they were more comfortable. As the day wore on, she was ready to hurl them overboard.

They sailed due east and she hoped they were not heading to Barbados. Her stomach kinked. Barbados was to be avoided at any and all costs. If she had to jump overboard and swim all the way back to Jamaica, she would do it. She would rather die than set foot on Barbadian soil.

The afternoon crept on and Finn grew grimier and filthier with each passing hour. The coil of rope at her feet now reached her knees, and she was convinced her fingers would never work properly again. She could barely straighten them, never mind keep her grip on the marlinspike.

As sun began its blazing descent into the horizon behind them, Iñigo approached her. “Finn!”

She jerked her head up, wincing at the sharp pain shooting up the back of her neck. She couldn’t help herself, but reached up to rub the burning muscle. “Aye, Captain?”

“On your feet, boy. There’s more than enough rope there.”

She breathed a sigh of relief, letting the marlinspike clatter to the deck. “Thank God.”

He grinned. “A mite tired, boy?”

“A mite.” She gingerly shook her free hand, trying to restore proper blood flow, and halted her rubbing to do the same with the other hand. They ached enough to sour her mood, and she didn’t mind sharing it.

Gesturing toward the stairs with one hand, Iñigo gripped her arm with the other. “Come then. I wish to bathe before supper.”

A groan rose in her throat at having to assist him again. True, it was a welcome respite from making rope, but she was exhausted and achy, and the only thing she wished to do was climb up into her hammock and sleep until morning.

A grimace curled her lips and a groan rose up as she glared at her blasted hammock. She didn’t know if she’d even be able to drag herself into it at all. In fact, she would gladly curl up on the floor if it meant she could but close her eyes.

“Finn?”

“Coming,” she muttered, forcing her feet to move at the impatience in his voice. She plodded along behind him, her feet leaden in her boots, legs tired from being in the same position since morning.

The shadowy corridor was cooler than topside, but the air was still. By the time she stepped into the captain’s cabin, fresh sweat dotted her forehead, trickled down between her shoulder blades, down between her breasts, and she had to fight down a snarl as the clammy, damp bandages stuck to her skin once more.

Iñigo closed the door behind her and she stifled yet another groan, spying the tub, already filled, steam rolling from its flat surface. Though it was exactly what she hoped for, there was also what was expected of her.
Dear Lord.
She rolled her eyes.
Give me strength.
“Am I to wash as well?”

His eyes narrowed, but she held his stare, even as his scowl darkened. His eyes flicked down and she resisted the desire to check if the bandage rolls were noticeable. It was difficult, but she clasped her hands behind her back to keep them still.

The darkness lifted from Iñigo's face, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. “Aye. You will.”

“As you wish.” She stepped up to help him undress, her stiff arms making the chore much more difficult, as she could barely lift them to take his shirt.

A curious thing happened as he dropped hot silk into her outstretched hands. Her belly kinked as she watched the muscles layering his shoulder almost ripple beneath his swarthy skin. Her mouth went dry, her eyes widening as the urge to lean in and nibble at his collarbone struck like a flash of lightning.

She took a half step back. Where had
that
come from? Why did she have the maddening desire to flatten her hands against his broad chest and caress his skin? Why did her belly suddenly seem to be in such knots? Why were those knots
tightening
?

“Finn?” Iñigo cleared his throat, moving away to bend over his desk. “I will bathe myself this eve. You go to the galley and fetch supper. And tell Guillermo to shake a leg. I am famished.” He turned back to her, holding out a sheet of parchment. “Can you read? I could write my orders as they sound, rather than having to give the list to Guillermo.”

The heat of shame filled her as she took the parchment and glanced down. Iñigo's handwriting was actually quite elegant, almost beautiful. She only wished she could read what he’d written. “Nay, Captain. I neither read nor write very well.”

He showed no surprise, but rather nodded, as if this was something he’d expected. “I thought not. Now, do hurry. I am afraid I grow most grouchy when my stomach is empty.”

“Aye, Captain.” She took it, hurrying from the cabin before he changed his mind about her assisting him. A small victory, to be sure, but one she was grateful to have won. It was difficult to say if she’d be as fortunate in the coming days.

Chapter Eleven

Without the usual evening breeze, the cabin was stifling. A fresh layer of sweat broke out over her entire body as she swayed in her hammock and swore softly when the heat jostled her from an already-restless sleep.

Will I
ever
feel clean for more than an hour?
She crossly kicked the blanket away from her. Her bath after supper had been wonderful, especially as Diego had come pounding on the door to pull his captain away to deal with some emergency or other, leaving her to bathe in peace once more.

She slept fully dressed, as she had every night since her arrival onboard the
María
, removing only her boots, and it had worked out perfectly. Her hammock was near the largest window in the cabin, and each night the cool ocean air wafted in to make for pleasant sleeping conditions.

Without the breeze, the air was heavy and sticky, especially as she had bound her breasts flat after her bath. The linen bit into her flesh and it was only her sheer stubbornness that made sleeping at all possible.

Low snores from across the cabin told her the good captain suffered no discomfort. Nothing interrupted his sleep. Apparently he was untroubled by the heat, while she lay there in the dark, fuming.

Rolling onto her side, she just made out Iñigo’s sleeping form through the darkness, aided by a slice of moonbeam cutting across the middle of the cabin. He lay on his back, one arm flung up over his head, the other folded over his chest, which rose and fell in steady, even motion.

It was difficult to hold back her sigh. They had to reach land soon. Surely they couldn’t roam the seas forever. They sailed southeast, toward the island of Guadeloupe, but she didn’t know if Captain Sebastiano planned to stop at the port at Basse-Terre. He said nothing regarding his destination, and she had yet to decide the best way to broach the subject. Surely she did not wish to arouse his suspicion by showing too much interest in where he was headed.

The moonbeam faded. Thunder rumbled over the open water. The air stirred, and she was grateful for the sudden chill kissing her overheated flesh. Lightning flashed, and not too long afterward came the steady sheeting of rain hitting the side of the ship. The winds picked up, blowing cool through the window. Snuggling beneath her light blanket, Finn closed her eyes and finally drifted back into slumber.

The rain pounded down in sheets the next morning as Finn opened her eyes. After rising and dressing, she moved to the window. The sky was pewter gray, with thick black clouds casting shadows in the distance. It was hard to make out how far off those ominous clouds were through the thick veil of drops, but the weather did not look promising.

She turned away from the window as the feather tick rustled behind her. Iñigo was also awake, sitting up with the sheets pooled about his hips. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his black hair tousled about his shoulders, and he lifted one hand to absently scratch his broad chest. “Is it morning or evening?”

She smiled at his mumble. It was almost endearing—almost like watching a little boy try to wake himself. “It’s morning, as far as I know. Though, I must admit it is a mite hard to tell with how gray that sky is.”

Iñigo ran both hands through his hair, then kicked back the covers, while Finn twisted back to face the window. Her insides twisted with an ever-growing curiosity about the man to whom she was beholden. An uncomfortable, persistent curiosity, to be sure, but one that seemed to grow a little more each day.

“We do need to work on this priggish streak of yours, Finn.” The floor creaked as he crossed the cabin to his armoire. Another creak as he tugged open the doors, and she pressed a fist to her lips, trying hard not to think about how he stood naked not more than six feet from her. Heat mercilessly stung her cheeks even as she tried her best to think of something—
anything
—that had nothing to do with Iñigo Sebastiano. Her mind spun with images of rogue waves striking the ship, of a sudden storm blowing up all around them,
anything
to take her mind off the fact he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. It was most difficult, but she managed. “Aye, Captain.”

The armoire doors closed with a bang and Iñigo sounded almost amused as he said, “I am going to relieve the watches. Tidy up a bit whilst I am gone, Finn. I’ll write out the breakfast orders when I return.”

She nodded, peering at him over one shoulder. “Aye, Captain.”

When the door clicked shut, she breathed a sigh of relief. Not only did she not have to worry about Captain Sebastiano's undressing until evening, but she also had some time to herself to take care of some personal matters. It was the worst part of each morning, waiting for the captain to leave long enough for her to answer nature’s calls.

The winds blew with greater force through the opened windows to ruffle her hair and she moved back to stand right in the thick of it. The air was cool and refreshing and she savored the feel of it on her skin, the way it wove through her hair. Closing her eyes, she smiled even as she shivered. It was delicious, indeed.

Opening her eyes again, she leaned up against the sill, poking her head out to turn in the direction of the heavenly breeze, into the salty spray. The water was a silvery sapphire, the waves churning stronger now, with foamy whitecaps dotting the surface. It was rough and growing rougher still. Judging by the inkiness of the clouds in the distance, it didn’t appear the storm would let up any time soon.

She pulled back into the cabin, wanting to be topside. Storms didn’t frighten her. They never had. Onboard the
Smiling Jack
, she went out into foul weather whenever possible. Rain didn’t trouble her. Neither did wind. There was nothing to fear, being out in such weather. After all, before leaving Eden's Pass, she’d survived far worse than anything Mother Nature threw at her.

Nay, think not of those days…
She shook her head, turning away from the window. “Those days are over. The past. Leave them there.”

Reaching beneath the neck of her tunic, Finn curled her fingers about the delicate gold chain warm against her skin. A gentle tug, and she freed it from where it’d snagged on the topmost strip of bandage. The cross dangling from the chain was an intricately detailed work of art. It was her most treasured possession, and the one thing she valued almost as much as her life. Like her odd silvery gray eyes, the cross was a gift from her mother. She was a mere child of seven when her mother fastened it around her neck. There it remained ever since.

Forcing the troubling memory aside, she tucked the cross back beneath her tunic and went about tidying up the cabin. It wasn’t the most difficult task, for Iñigo was quite neat, but it was a chore she put off doing until the last possible moment.

She was drawing the sheets up over the bed when footsteps sounded out in the corridor. Her chores were unfinished, as there were still clothes piled on the table, and a collection of wrinkled stockings on the floor beside the bed, but she was not worried. It would take but a second for her to scoop them up and deposit them in the large basket on the floor beside the armoire.

The door swung open and Iñigo stepped into the room. His eyes were dark as they met hers, but that didn’t trouble her. Surely he’d not erupt over a few scattered clothes, would he? It seemed silly to her, to grow upset because his cabin was a bit on the messy side, but some people were rather fussy about such things. Mayhap he was one of them.

She stood there, waiting for him to upbraid her, but he said nothing about the somewhat haphazard state of his cabin and still-rumpled bed. In fact, he said nothing at all. Instead, his eyes continued to darken as he moved to the window to peer through it, staring out at the water.

“Is something the matter?” she asked, turning around to see him staring out at the water. His arms were folded across his chest, his back and shoulders stiff, almost rigid, as he continued staring out, searching the sea behind the
María.

“We have company.” His voice was a low, humorless growl.

Her ears perked up, and her belly fluttered at the same time. “Company, you say? I was looking out that window but moments ago and I saw nothing.”

He gestured toward the open space. “Come, then. See for yourself, Finn.”

She moved to stand beside him, peeking out the same window. Squeezing between him and the wall, she fought to ignore the musky, masculine scent teasing her nose. Instead, she concentrated on where there had been nothing but foamy, white-capped ocean earlier, now a lone ship loomed, and it grew larger by the minute. She squinted into the distance, wondering if it was the same ship she’d seen the day before. “I cannot see a flag.”

“She is not flying one.” He twisted to face her, resting his elbow on the ledge below the window. “But I’ve an idea whom it might be.”

This
was a surprise and she couldn’t keep it from her voice as she glanced up at him. “You do?”

He nodded. “It’s none other than the
Magdalena.
”

Finn gaped at him. “Are you certain?”

“I am.”

She turned back to the window, a ripple of apprehension trickling through her. The
Magdalena
was known and feared by most who sailed the Caribbean waters. She was captained by Edward Kittles, a privateer under England’s protection. Beauregard would sneer and mock the English captain, but the one time the
Smiling Jack
crossed paths with the
Magdalena
, Beauregard couldn’t turn tail quick enough.

Kittles’s reputation was the stuff of legends and even she—a lowly cabin boy—had heard of the Englishman’s cruel streak, his brutal treatment of both his crew and his prisoners alike. Her mouth went dry and her palms clammy.

Glancing back at Iñigo, it was to see a muscle leap in his jaw and his eyes glint with what appeared to be a murderous rage. Wondering what could cause such rage, she asked, “And what happens now?”

“My dear boy—” he turned toward her, outwardly calm, save for his glinting eyes, “—surely you did not just ask me that inane question. What think you happens?”

“You will face them.” It was not a question. They would engage the newcomer in battle. A flutter of apprehension, mingled with excitement, rippled her belly. It was a risky question, but one she
had
to ask. “Will you allow me my steel?”

Iñigo's surprise was clear as his eyed widened. “Allow you your steel?”

She nodded, anticipation already bubbling through her veins, her hands almost trembling from it. There was nothing she’d ever wanted as passionately, though she tried not to let on. “You said yourself I would be an asset to your crew.”

“And you’ve been in my company a mere week, Finn. Think you I am so mad as to allow you your weapon?”

Finn turned back to the window, her eyes drawn back to the growing ketch with the mottled gray-blue sails. “Captain, you have nothing to fear from me. I am in your service through no wish of my own, but it isn’t as though you snatched me from a life of leisure, of a higher station, and forced me into servitude. Know you this, I
will
be an asset, should it come to battle. You need only trust me. Know this, you need fear nothing from me.”

“And think you I fear you at all?”

She snorted. “Of course not. But I am offering to assist you. You said yourself that several of your men were wounded in the battle with the
Smiling Jack
. I am more than a mere cabin boy. I know you don’t believe me, but Beauregard saw fit to release his ship to me eventually and even you yourself saw what I am capable of, did you not?”

“Aye. I did. But—”

“Nay,” Finn shook her head, holding up a hand. “Nay, there is no
but
, Captain. I offer you my assistance. We both know I am amply skilled with my steel. You would be a fool to not make use of me.”

More than anything, she wanted to be involved, wanted to feel her steel in her hands once more. She wanted to prove to Iñigo she was every bit as capable as any one of his men. Mayhap then he’d return her steel for good. Mayhap then—

“Finn?”

“Captain,” she whispered, no shame, no embarrassment, only steely resolve and determination. “Allow me this and I’ll not ask for another thing the rest of my time onboard this ship.”

She didn’t care if she begged, didn’t care that it made her seem weak. Her steel was almost in her hands. It was apparent in the indecision in his eyes, in the way he sighed before slowly tipping his head. “Very well, Finn. I will allow it. But,” he added ominously, “know you this—should you decide to try to raise your blade to me, I will make damn certain my men understand they are to cut you down at once.”

“Of course,” she replied, excitement and blood-chilling fear swirling through her, making her hands, her arms, her entire body tremble with anticipation.

“You must give me your word, Finn.”

“I give you my word, Captain.”

“Very well. Come along, Finn.” He glanced up toward the ceiling. “
Dios mío
, do not let me regret this.”