The Bastard (24 page)

She saw Lieutenant Treynor occasionally, walking past her with the captain, calling to the men aloft, or checking the ship’s compass. His watch was over, but he didn’t seem inclined to go below where she’d no longer be plagued by the sight of him.

Cunnington had met with the captain at six bells, or eleven o’clock, part of his daily routine from what Jeannette could gather from the taciturn Simon. The first lieutenant was so preoccupied she doubted he’d take further notice of her, for the morning. Had Treynor been less angry, he could have let her return to his cabin. Instead, she was bloodying her hands by trying to swing a hammer.

Remembering the spanking Treynor had given her made her resentment grow. He was such a contradiction. He behaved like a gentleman sometimes and a rake at others. He was hard and unyielding, yet he would take the stripes for a lad and help a runaway woman he didn’t even like. Jeannette didn’t know whether she wanted to slap him...or kiss him.

Slap him, she decided. His arrogance irked her.

“Don’t give out on me.” Simon watched her with a wary eye. “The bosun’s mates will start ye right enough.”

Jeannette had collapsed in an exhausted heap while Simon’s hammer rang loudly in her ears. Renewing her efforts to help him with the caulking, before the bosun’s mates lashed her with one of the short, hard ropes they carried for just that purpose, she cursed Treynor under her breath for his roughness with her, for abandoning her to Simon, and for confusing everything she once thought she admired in a man.

“I hate him,” she grumbled to herself.

“Who?” Simon asked, overhearing.

Jeannette hesitated. “Treynor,” she admitted at last, enjoying the vitriolic bent of her own words.

“What ye got against the lieutenant, lad? E’s not a bad bloke, far as officers go. ’E’s done pretty well for himself.”

Jeannette made no reply.

“And he’s done right by you. A boy in yer position ’ought ter be grateful fer that,” he went on. “The navy’ll teach ye fast enough.”

“So I hear.” A blister burst, leaving raw skin exposed to the hammer’s handle. Shaking the pain away, she tried using her left hand, but her awkward wielding of the tool only earned her another sharp look from Simon.

“I’ve known girls what can ’ammer better than the likes o’ ye.”

Jeannette was so cold, sore, and tired that, in utter resignation, she almost told him she was a girl—and that his beloved and revered Lieutenant Treynor knew it. Rather than do that, she pulled her shirtsleeve down to protect the sores as best she could and transferred the hammer to her right hand.

Many of the crew performed maintenance chores such as Simon’s caulking. Some retarred the rigging, sewed worn-out sails, or repaired a damaged cannon. Others worked in messes, preparing the main meal of the day to be served at noon.

Jeannette kept one eye on her work and one on the hatchway to the galley as the sour smell of cheese rose to her nostrils. She never dreamed she’d be so eager for such simple fare, but her stomach’s growl gave evidence that the bad-tasting “burgoo” of breakfast had long since passed through her system.

Catching sight of the petty officer who’d beat her in the roundhouse, Jeannette ducked her head. She had no desire to gain his attention, but the sight of him carrying a bucket tied around his neck piqued her curiosity.

She studied him from beneath her lashes. “What is that man wearing around his neck?”

When Simon glanced up, she gestured to indicate who she meant.

“’Tis a spitkid.”

“A spitkid?”

“Aye. Lieutenant Treynor caught ’im spittin’ on the deck. Now ’e’s target practice for the rest of us.”

Jeannette couldn’t resist the smile that spread across her chilled face. Because they couldn’t smoke, most of the crew chewed tobacco. She had witnessed the telltale bulge in many a sailor’s cheek and had viewed, with great disgust, the steady stream of brown juice they spat from between dried, cracked lips. It was a pleasure to imagine them trying to hit the petty officer’s bucket and missing, as they often did.

Lieutenant Treynor stood at the wheel, deep in conversation with a fellow officer. Jeannette glanced covertly at his broad shoulders, noting how his uniform accentuated his lean hips and long legs. Was she the reason the petty officer wore the bucket? Had Treynor punished the man who’d harmed her?

Probably not, but if so, Treynor’s retribution represented yet another contradiction. He hated her. Why would he bother to punish one of his crew for hurting her?

Just before noon, Jeannette watched the master and the master’s mates measuring the angle of the sun as it reached its highest point off the horizon. Prodded by her many questions, Simon explained that they were calculating how far north or south the ship was by using quadrants, which also established the correct time.

A gangly youth changed the date and day of the week on the log-board, eight strokes clanged on the ship’s bell, and Bosun Hawker piped them to dinner.

Jeannette gladly relinquished her hammer as Lieutenant Treynor approached. Anticipating a tray of food to equal the one he had brought her the night before, she stood, even forced a smile to her lips, only to learn that he expected her to mess with Simon while he visited the wardroom to eat with the captain.

Remembering the eggs she’d tried to gather, the goats that roamed freely over the deck, and the pens of both cattle and pigs stabled below, all reserved upon slaughter for the captain and his officers, Jeannette jealously watched him disappear. Regular seamen’s rations paled in comparison to the sumptuous fare that graced Cruikshank’s table.

But there was nothing to be done to better her lot. Her disappearance from Treynor’s cabin had angered him such that he offered her no reprieve. She had to descend to the mess, like the rest of the rank and file, and take a seat on one of the sea chests the men used as benches while eating.

As they began to serve the meal, Jeannette pictured Treynor enjoying his food while thinking with silent pleasure how he had made the Baroness St. Ives work like a common sailor. She vowed she’d get even. But it was difficult to stay angry with him when she saw the petty officer who’d struck her in the roundhouse attempting to eat while encumbered by his leather bucket.

Jeannette finished her salty beef and boiled peas just as a man with baggy clothes and a jagged scar across his cheek began to play a flute. She listened in a tired stupor until the others filed out, then she followed them to the main deck where she received her liquor ration from a barrel.

Although Jeannette doubted she’d require so much, she accepted the tankard the purser’s mate shoved toward her. The ship’s water tasted brackish already; she could hardly gag it down. And the beef had heightened her thirst. But Jeannette had never sampled anything stronger than wine.

The rum burned her stomach and warmed her body, boosting her flagging spirits. Grateful for this one moment of reprieve and relative enjoyment, she drank what was in her mug and returned for more.

Lulled by the lively notes of the flute that carried up from below and the first pleasant sensations she’d experienced since picking up that hammer, Jeannette drank far more than she had intended. She gave the last few swallows of her second tankard to one of the greedy fellows who had been hoping she’d do just that, then stumbled back to her detested task.

Simon was already at work, humming along with the notes of the flute. Jeannette added her voice to his as she plopped onto the deck and began pounding the fibers between the planks.

“This ship will be watertight thanks to us, no?” Her tongue slid and stumbled over the words as she tried to focus on Simon, who had suddenly grown fuzzy. Jeannette squinted to see his face more clearly, but could pinpoint only his bandanna, the one bright spot on his plain clothing.

He didn’t answer.

She shrugged and swung her hammer with more abandon. Her hands didn’t hurt so badly anymore, and she enjoyed greater warmth than at any moment since leaving Treynor’s bed.

Treynor...Jeannette giggled at the thought of him. He knew how to taunt a woman, but he certainly knew how to please one, too. She remembered his arms around her at the Stag, the soft furring of his chest against her breasts...

She closed her eyes, then opened them again when she swooned and almost toppled over. The deck seemed to be shifting more than before. She could scarcely keep her balance even though she was sitting down.

What had changed?

When she glanced skyward, she saw nothing but blue—blue all around, which only increased her dizziness. The whole world seemed to be rocking. She felt as if she’d be swept away if she stood, but she couldn’t find any handholds on the smoothly polished deck.

“Simon?” Jeannette studied the blurring shapes around her, but could not identify him. “Simon?”

“Be quiet, you’re drunk.” The voice didn’t belong to Simon. The words were harshly uttered and carried a note of warning, but Jeannette recognized their warm timbre and smiled at the sensual memories that voice evoked.

“Lieutenant?” She blinked up at him, confirming his identity by the shiny brass on his uniform. “I am doin’ a good job. Just ask Simon. I am doin’ a good job, am I not, Simon?”

She slammed the hammer into the deck again, but she couldn’t remember whether she’d stuffed a bit of oakum in the crack. She bent to better examine her work when long fingers removed the handle from her grasp.

“Ow,” she complained at the jolt of pain it caused. “My blisters.”

Treynor took her hand and ran his thumb over the skin of her palm. “I will take care of him, Simon,” he said. “The lad’s new and does not know any better.”

“Aye, sir.” Simon’s voice floated to her as if from a far distance, right before Treynor's acrimonious whisper sounded in her ear. “Walk, damn it. I dare not carry you.”

Jeannette laughed. “Do not be angry,
m’sieu
. You are far too handsome to be angry.”

“Hush.” Lifting her to her feet by one arm, he nearly dragged her along beside him as she tried to use her rubbery legs. Then, when they were out of eyesight of the others, he swept her into his arms and strode hastily to his cabin.

“You little fool,” he whispered. “You will get yourself caught yet. And me with you.”

Jeannette didn’t care what he said. He was holding her. That was all that mattered because it kept her from spinning away. She was becoming sleepy, so sleepy that she could hardly keep her eyelids open. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she nuzzled her face into the hollow of his throat, breathing in the sharp, clean scent of him, the same scent she had recognized on his bedclothes.

“You smell good enough to eat,” she announced.

He chuckled, his breath tickling her ear. “Are you admitting, my lady, that you are hungry for a man?”

Jeannette began to wiggle in his arms as soon as they reached his cabin. “I must get these bindings off,” she complained. “I cannot breathe.”

As soon as Treynor deposited her in his hammock, she unbuttoned her shirt and began to worry the knots.

“Give me your knife. I cannot wait a moment longer.”

“No.” He brushed her hands aside. “Do not cut them. We will need them again.” His fingers worked to loosen the bands until they fell away, rewarding him with a full view of her bosom. He couldn’t help but smile at the glorious vision, his earlier consternation easily forgotten.

Jeannette didn’t bother to cover herself. She rubbed the welts that marked her flesh, propriety and embarrassment lost in drink and her marked relief. “Ah, that feels better.”

Treynor’s gaze fell to the pulse above her delicate collarbone. The soft flesh between that bone and the swell of a woman’s breast was his favorite part of the female anatomy.

He allowed his eyes to fall lower. Well, besides the breast itself, perhaps.