Care and Feeding of Pirates (22 page)

"I know. But falling in love changes the way
you think. It makes men--and women--do things they never thought
they would."

"I'm not in love with that bespectacled,
prissy Englishman," Manda said, a bit too quickly. She peered at
Christopher. "Are you saying you are in love with your little
wife?"

"I think so." It didn't hurt to say it out
loud. It felt good, in fact.

Manda's look turned interested. "Why'd you
marry her? I mean, the day before you were supposed to hang, you
suddenly decided to get married?"

Christopher shrugged again. He remembered the
hot prison, stinking of damp and filth, and then Honoria coming to
him, so pretty and clean, her eyes distressed, her soft lips
whispering his name. A voice in the back of Christopher's mind had
shouted at him to not let her go, not this time. He'd put his
grubby hands on her fine face and said, "Marry me, Honoria."

For a moment, Honoria had stared at him like
a startled dove, then her green eyes had softened, and she'd
said--incredibly--"Yes."

"I don't know," Christopher finished. "I
suppose I didn't want to die alone."

He expected another snort of derision. His
sister had never had much room in her life for emotion.

But then, why should she? Manda had never
known her mother--a freed Jamaican slave--and their father hadn't
wanted her. Only Christopher had stood by her when the mother had
deposited the baby at the feet of Emile Raine. Christopher's mother
had felt sorry for the child so pathetically abandoned, but Raine
had turned his back and said that if Manda stayed, the others had
the keeping of her, until she was old enough to be sold.

Christopher had felt a bond between himself
and his half sister, despite their differences in race, gender, and
age. His mother hadn't known what to do with a nearly wild,
half-black girl child, so Christopher had raised her himself,
teaching her to be a fearless sailor and efficient pirate.
Christopher had convinced their father not to sell Manda after
all--not difficult once the man saw how hard she could work. Emile
was never one to pass up free labor.

Manda had always been strong, and not only
physically. Her upright body, her quickness, and her strength often
made Christopher forget that she could be as vulnerable as he
was.

Now she fixed him with her skull-boring gaze.
"I think I understand."

Manda did. Christopher did not have to
doubt.

He remembered Honoria's worry that Manda
might still be upset by her treatment at Switton's hands.
Christopher cleared his throat and groped his way along an
unfamiliar phrase.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Manda blinked at him. "Talk about what?"

"You know--what you went through with
Switton."

Her brows arched like blackbird's wings. "I
survived," she said. "And no, I don't want to talk about it. It's
over. Why do you?"

"Honoria thought you'd need to discuss it.
She likes everyone to talk about their feelings."

Manda stared at Christopher as though he'd
gone insane. Then her lips twitched. She started to chortle, then
she threw back her head and let out full-blown laughter.

Christopher folded his arms and let Manda
laugh, reflecting that it was damn good to hear her again.

Manda wiped her eyes. "Oh, Chris, you poor
thing."

"Honoria makes up for it."

"I know. I had to hang halfway into the water
to drown out the noise you two were making."

Christopher smiled, remembering what had
caused the noise.

"Lordy, look at you grinning." Manda's peals
of laughter rang into the wind. Every so often she'd relapse into
chuckles, then she'd say, "Talk about your feelings," and be off
again.

Christopher watched her, enjoying the fact
that she was close enough to him at long last to bathe him in her
rich, warm laughter.

*** *** ***

The fine weather--few clouds, no
storms--meant that, as they sailed south, the air turned sweltering
hot. The men and lieutenants stripped down to breeches. Two sailors
Christopher had recruited in Siam wore nothing but loincloths that
covered their privates and not much else. Manda bound a strip of
colorful cloth about her breasts and wore that and breeches, her
brown skin shining in the sun.

Honoria took to wearing less and less under
her lawn and muslin dresses. Christopher observed this delicious
fact every time she came up on deck. The hot weather had some
compensations.

Her nose turned bright red, then began to
peel. Mrs. Colby kindly provided her with a cream, and Honoria went
about with her nose slathered with the gray-green concoction. No
one laughed at her, because the thick, eucalyptus-scented sunburn
cream made its rounds to the entire crew.

The blazing sun grew hotter, the clouds grew
thinner and then disappeared altogether. And finally, as
Christopher had feared, the wind died.

The ship glided to slow halt, the sails limp.
No amount of tacking could find even a hint of breeze.

Christopher ordered the men to stand down,
letting as many as possible rest below out of the sun, though it
became stifling in the forecastle and the cabins. Tempers ran high,
and levels in the freshwater barrels ran low.

Christopher had faced water shortage before.
Most ships did. He immediately went to drastic rationing, and the
routine fell into place.

A cup a day to every man or woman, less to a
sick man. Two dozen lashes and a cutting of rations for stealing
water or fighting over it. On some ships the penalty for taking
water was hanging--if you died for stealing, that much more water
would be available to the others. But Christopher wanted all his
crew alive.

"A sick man needs
more
water," Honoria
tried to point out.

"A sick man sleeps in his hammock all day,"
Christopher returned. "While the others work in the heat. Besides,
if I announce that sick men get more water, half the crew will
report ill in the morning."

Honoria looked unconvinced.

She was arguing, because young Carew had
fallen sick. He did not have plague, thank God, nor cholera or
anything else that would render the
Starcross
a ghost
ship--he had a fever from too much sun and overwork.

Honoria took it upon herself to look after
him. She'd grown fond of Carew, who'd taught her how to steer the
ship, how to tell when sails should be adjusted, how to know when
the wind changed dangerously--all without shouting at her. He'd
been a patient teacher, and Honoria had been grateful. Now she'd
become his most tender nurse, to Christopher's annoyance.

When Christopher remonstrated with her for
tiring herself, Honoria changed in a heartbeat from enticing
pirate's wench to stately Southern lady. "I am only doing my duty
to one less fortunate."

"He has the sniffles, not smallpox,"
Christopher growled. "And your duty is to me."

Honoria gave him a lofty look. "I know, you
are the captain. We all bow down before you." She walked away with
her nose in the air, back to tend Mr. Carew.

Christopher retaliated by making love to her
that night against the wall in the cabin, until she was gasping for
breath and begging for release. Only then did he let her lie down,
where he proceeded to do it again.

It was a hell of a thing to be married to a
wife who refused to grasp the idea of obeying her husband.
Christopher guessed that in her fancy Charleston home Honoria
hadn't been denied anything. The pretty, only daughter of a wealthy
family had commanded obedience, not given it.

Christopher wished she
had
learned
obedience, and learned it forcibly. Because as the weather
continued hot and still, and the sweating men stank, and the food
turned sour, he caught Honoria giving extra water to her ill friend
Mr. Carew.

*****

Chapter Seventeen

Honoria had never seen Christopher so enraged
as when he faced her in the stern, stone-faced, but with eyes
blazing fury.

She held her head high. "I did not steal the
water. I gave Mr. Carew
my
ration. I can do as I like with
it."

"No, you either drink it yourself or pour it
overboard."

"How ridiculous." She swallowed, her throat
already parched. "Anyway, it brought down his fever."

Christopher's eyes sparkled dangerously. "I
don't care if it made him dance a hornpipe. You need that water,
Honoria. You can die of heat stroke faster than you know."

She believed him. The heat pounded at them,
and her thin dress was damp with her sweat. She wished she'd dare
bare her torso, like Manda with her strip of cloth, but some things
proper Honoria could not bring herself to do.

"He needed the water," she repeated
stubbornly.

Christopher glared at her. "Go below, and
stay there. Carew can do without you for the afternoon."

Honoria stamped away but threw the last word
over her shoulder. "I know why you never want to talk about your
feelings, Christopher Raine. You don't have any!"

That night, he proved her wrong. He took her
to the stern as the sun dipped below the horizon, and the sky
turned cool twilight blue.

Christopher had certainly taken to ordering
her about of late, Honoria thought, but it was far too hot to argue
with him. Last night, he had not even made love to her--they'd lain
side by side, breathing the night air through the cabin's open
window, both exhausted from heat and thirst.

Instead of being disappointed, Honoria had
felt peace and languorousness, comfort in the strength of his hard
body next to hers. She'd watched the moonlight travel across his
bare body, black shadows outlining the ruin of his side as well as
the perfection of the rest of him.

Honoria was taken again by the beauty of him
as he stood waiting for her now, the dying light touching his tall
body. He wore only breeches against the heat, his torso bare, no
bad thing.

Christopher beckoned impatiently, so she left
off her moonstruck staring and went to him.

He led her to the stern bench, where he sat
her down next to him, pulled her back into the circle of his arms,
and lifted a cup of water from the deck. Made of copper, the cup
was corroded green around the top edge but moist with dew.
Honoria's dry mouth yearned for it.

Christopher held the cup to her lips.
"Drink."

She did not need the command. Honoria opened
her mouth, and Christopher poured the cool liquid into it.

Lovely, lovely water. Never mind that it
tasted a bit musty and coppery.

Honoria took a second, long swallow, savoring
it all the way down. To think, at home she'd turn up her nose at
such an offering, preferring lemonade with sugar and a bit of
cinnamon. Here, musty, warm water seemed the purest nectar.

Christopher watched her drink, his eyes
still. Honoria was surprised he'd procured an extra ration for her.
He was bent on following the rules, and made even stricter rules
for himself.

She took a third swallow and then she
realized. "This is your ration."

"Yes, and I can do whatever I please with
it."

Honoria pushed the cup away. "You must drink
it. I do not need it."

"Don't be stupid. Yes, you do."

"I am better now, really."

Christopher gave her a narrow look. "I don't
want a heroic wife, I want one with common sense. Lately you've
been lacking any kind of sense. It must be the heat."

"You're the one being heroic," she said.

"I'm no hero, wife. I'm a villain. And if you
don't drink the water, I will do something even more
villainous."

"What?" she asked.

He gave her a look that made her shiver. "I
might just hold your nose and dump the water down your throat."

"That would be foolish. You could spill
it."

His scowl deepened. "Or I might toss you into
the waves. You said you wanted to bathe."

"We all need to bathe," she said. "The men
have become quite odiferous. Although I fear being salt encrusted
might make things worse."

"Then obey your husband and drink."

"You must drink too," she said stubbornly.
Her mouth did feel better, less swollen and dry, though she still
thirsted.

Christopher studied her a long moment. Behind
the ship, to the east, the sky was already dark, a pale moon above
the horizon.

He lifted the cup to his lips and took a
drink. Honoria traced the swallow down his throat, watched his
Adam's apple move behind his tanned skin. Christopher took another
mouthful, and Honoria's mouth quivered with envy.

Christopher put his thumb under her chin,
turned her face up to his, and kissed her. Water, lovely and soft,
caressed her tongue. They shared the sip, then he eased away. They
shared the next one, and the next.

Christopher held the cup to her. "One
left."

"You have it."

"Back to heroics, are you? Drink it, damn
you."

Under his stern gaze, she did. Before Honoria
swallowed, she kissed him. Christopher grinned, dipped his tongue
into her mouth once more, then withdrew.

He settled her back against him, setting the
empty cup on the deck. The air had cooled a bit already. Despite
the hot days, the nights could be chilly.

Honoria snuggled against Christopher's chest,
already glad of his warmth. She slid her bare feet to his leg,
nudging her toes along Christopher's calf.

If the entirety of her marriage could be like
this, she thought, she could be happy. Sailing on the open water,
Christopher by her side, he lying with her every night. She twined
her fingers through his and trailed her foot up his leg.

Through her drowsy lassitude, she heard
Christopher say, "This life is hard for you."

True, Honoria thought. She had calluses on
her palms for the first time in her life, and her hair was dry and
tangled. She very much needed her rosewater cream for her hands and
a lavender rinse for her hair.