Something Worth Disturbing For
Something Worth Disturbing For
17th August 1716
Jay pushed his thumb through the stave Will had handed him. The wood gave way with a wet crunch.
“Where’s the captain?”
“In the quarters.” Jay dug a splinter out of his palm and looked down at Will’s breeches, soaked black to the knee. “Which cask?”
“Another of the new ones.”
They had three bolts of French silk below, a chest of plate, and enough burgundy to keep the watch drunk until September. But not a barrel fit to hold water. The merchants on Tortuga had grown particular about pirates by day, though their conscience cleared up remarkably once the sun went down and the price was doubled.
Jay turned the wood under the hooded lantern. Pitch had been smeared over a dry-rot split beneath the hoop, just enough sound timber on the outside to pass a quick look on the quay. Jay had been the one looking, unfortunately. As quartermaster, his mistakes had a habit of coming back aboard to drip on the deck and demand an explanation.
Will rested a hand on the hatch coaming, waiting for him to finish thinking about it.
“How much lost?”
“Saved most.”
“Good.”
“Would’ve saved all of it in a proper cask.” Will spat over the rail.
Below, the ladder gleamed wet. The sour smell of soaked oak was already crawling up from the hold to mix with the tar and old bilge. Tortuga’s lights were long gone astern, along with any chance of putting the broken stave through the cooper’s window.
The Briar Rose dipped into a long swell. Will caught the coaming; Jay let his knees take the roll, his eyes drifting up as the foretopsail gave a thin, papery snap.
Ruth’s patch showed pale against the grey canvas. She’d spent three hours at it this afternoon, sprawling across the maindeck with her needles, threatening to chop Ned’s toes off when he stepped on a corner.
Good stitching. Terrible cloth.
They’d taken silk enough to dress a duchess, but not ten yards of decent duck. Jay had known they needed sailcloth. He’d known they needed water casks, powder, lamp oil, salt beef, and needles, too—all the things men only remembered when they were six leagues offshore and looking for someone to hang for it. He still should have bought the canvas.
“Captain needs telling,” Will said.
“Is the hold flooded?”
“No. I caught it before the bottom gave.”
“Check the rest before you go waking anyone. If three are bad, there’ll be more. Take two hands and shift the tier.”
The boatswain rounded the hatch with a coil over his shoulder, slowing when he saw Will still planted there. Jay passed him the broken stave without a word. The boatswain bent it between his calloused hands until it snapped like a dry twig.
“That’s three,” Will muttered.
The boatswain grimaced. “Get two lads from forward. Move the sound ones clear first, and mind the ladder.”
Will wiped a wet palm down his thigh, still standing his ground. “I told you they weren’t fit.”
“You did,” Jay said.
“So who pays when we buy the wood twice?”
Jay took the broken stave back before someone dropped it down the hold and impaled a hand below. “Put me beside the bill and point. Now go on.”
Satisfied, Will disappeared forward. Jay chose not to hear his parting mutter; quartermasters who listened to every grumble on a ship ended up either overboard or in irons, and neither appealed before breakfast.
The boatswain watched him go, then jerked his chin toward the stern. A thread of yellow light showed beneath the cabin door.
“Could’ve let him knock,” the boatswain said.
“Could’ve.”
“Been shut a long time.”
Jay turned his head slowly. He stared until the boatswain’s mouth twitched. “Captain’s not to be disturbed unless the ship is sinking or on fire.”
“Wasnt planning to.”
“No. You’re just thinking it loud enough to wake the dead.”
The boatswain grunted a laugh. Something bumped Jay’s boot; he looked down to find the tail of the heavy coil draped over his toes.
“Pick that up.”
“It’s only a line.”
“You’ve identified it. Now try moving it.”
The boatswain picked it up with a snort and moved off. Once the men were below, Jay carried the rotten stave aft. He stopped by the larboard gun when he felt it shift a fraction too much with the roll. He threw his weight against the breeching, hauled the knot tight, and kicked the wedge to test it before moving on.
Stores, guns, rations, shares. Quartermaster sounded grand in a tavern. At sea it meant walking around in the dark to see which idiot had left something loose to kill another idiot.
Ninety men aboard, and Jay could only see six. The rest were asleep below, packed tight enough in the dark to trade lice without waking. A wet rasping snore rose through the main hatch, followed by two heavy thumps against a bulkhead. Silence held for three breaths before the snoring started up again, louder than before.
Jay tossed the rotten wood into a corner where nobody would step on it barefoot and walked out onto the quarterdeck. The wind was warm off the land. Hispaniola was a dark smudge to larboard; to starboard, the moon broke through the clouds, scattering silver over the swell. The Rose rode it easily, timber creaking and rigging humming in the night until that dry flutter came from overhead again.
Not the patch this time.
Jay knew that sound. Old canvas giving up. He was already calculating how much cloth they could save if the seam tore open when Isaiah spoke from the helm.
“Ruth says her stitching’ll hold,” the sailing master said, eyes fixed on the sky.
“It will,” Jay said. “The rest won’t.”
“If the wind stays like this, we’ll make dawn.”
“That sounds hopeful.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
Isaiah’s head turned. He wasn’t looking at the sail anymore. He was staring past Jay’s shoulder, out over the starboard quarter. Something in his shoulders went tight.
Jay turned.
At first, nothing. Just black water meeting black sky under a bank of low cloud. Then a swell caught the moonlight, and for a fraction of a second, something broke the horizon.
“There,” Isaiah said.
A thin white sliver, standing upright against the dark. Then the swell rose and swallowed it.
“Sail?”
“Might be.” Isaiah reached for the brass glass on the binnacle. “Might be a crest.”
Jay waited. A man could turn a floating log into a Spanish frigate if he looked at it long enough in the dark.
The moon slid behind a thick cloud, wiping out the horizon altogether. Isaiah lowered the glass, but he didn’t relax.
“Want me to knock?” Jay asked.
“I want to know what it is first.” Isaiah lifted the glass again, squinting into the black. “Get Toby up here. Put another set of eyes on that quarter.”
Jay nodded. It wasn’t enough to wake the cabin for, but the sight of that white mark stayed behind his ribs like a cold weight. When he reached the hatch, he looked back. Isaiah was still glued to the rail, the glass pressed to his eye.
Catherine had sewed her waistcoat to her breeches.
Just one stitch, but she needed to get the point of her small blade under it before anyone noticed.
She pulled the cloth closer to the lantern light and worked at the thread. Behind her, water splashed into the tin basin. Cormac was scrubbing his face and neck, taking an unusual amount of time behind his ears.
“Will you be much longer?” she asked.
“Nearly done.”
“Which one are you mending?”
Catherine snipped the thread, pulled it free, and looked over her shoulder. “Have you finished?”
“Unless you’d like to inspect me.”
“Bolt the door.”
He grinned, crossing the cabin with his shirt hanging open. Catherine shoved her needle back into the felt scrap before she was tempted to use it on him. She looked down at the waistcoat with mild irritation. It had been fine before she decided to fix it. The truth was, her hands needed something to do while he washed. Sewing had seemed like a safe option.
Next time she’d know better.
Cormac slid the heavy bolt home and reached for a tin cup on the table.
“That’s mine,” she said.
“They’re both yours.”
“I tasted that one.”
He drank anyway. The first swallow made his face twist as if he’d taken a mouthful of lamp oil.
“God above. What is that?”
“The Frenchman’s.”
“You should’ve let him keep it.”
Catherine laughed, setting the sewing box aside. He came toward her smelling of lye soap, wet hair, and the faint, permanent tang of Stockholm tar. The clean skin at his throat was distracting. It made her forget she’d planned to complain about him taking so long.
“Will had you?”
“Aye. Holding the hatch while he shaved the edge with an adze. Fits here, catches there. Every time he shaved a bit off, he found another place sticking.”
Cormac set the cup down and flexed his right hand. A raw scrape ran across two knuckles, red and swollen.
Catherine held out her palm. “Let me see.”
“It’s nothing, love.”
“Then it won’t take long.”
He gave a long, dramatic sigh and put his hand in hers. There was tar under his thumb nail that wouldn’t scrub out, and old white scars crossed his fingers—ropes, iron, splintered oak. The new scrape fit right in.
“The hatch?”
“Slipped.”
“With your hand under it?”
“No, I put it there after. Wanted to see how it felt.”
She pressed the edge of the swelling. Cormac winced and snatched his hand back.
“You’ll live,” she said.
“Not if you keep touching it.”
He leaned down. Catherine caught the front of his open shirt, letting him get close enough for his beard to scratch her chin, then looked down at his feet.
“Boots.”
He closed his eyes. “Ah, leave off.”
“Not on the bedding.”
“I’m not on the bedding.”
“Then decide if you’re staying or going.”
He sat on the chest with a huff and hauled off the left boot. Catherine put her waistcoat away. When she turned back, the other boot had hit the deck and Cormac was sitting on the edge of the berth, his stockinged feet right where she needed to walk.
She kicked his toe. He shifted just enough for her to step between his knees, his hands dropping onto her hips like he’d planned it all along.
She looked down at him. “You’re very pleased with yourself.”
“I’m a comfortable man.”
A dark curl had caught in her collar. He reached up and worked it free, pulling a bent iron hair-pin out with it. He laid the pin on the small shelf by the lamp with three others.
“That was keeping my hair up.”
“Was it?”
The curl fell against her neck. His thumb followed it down, pressing lightly against her skin.
“You’re not going back on deck?” she asked.
His hand stilled.
He looked up, meeting her eyes, and Catherine immediately wished she hadn’t asked. It sounded too much like she cared whether he stayed or went. She could have asked about the hatch, or the wine, or if the wind was holding anything normal.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he said slowly. “Unless you’ve had enough of me.”
“You could have said.”
“I’ve taken my boots off. What else do you want?”
She caught his shirt and pulled him up into a kiss.
Cormac tasted of salt and the bad French wine. His hands slid up her back, pulling her flush against him until his knees clamped around hers. When she bit his lower lip, he made a low sound in his throat that made her do it again. Then he stood, lifting her off her heels.
“Careful,” she muttered against his mouth. “You’re tall enough.”
“Then stop pulling my hair.”
An order echoed faintly from the deck above. A block squeaked, followed by the drag of heavy feet across the planking. Cormac’s head turned toward the ceiling, listening.
Catherine listened too. No shouting. No running. Isaiah had the deck, and Isaiah didn’t need Cormac Doyle standing in his breeches giving advice.
“They can manage,” she said.
“I didn’t say they couldn’t.”
“Then stop listening.”
His hand moved to the back of her neck, pulling her back down into a longer, heavier kiss. She yanked at his shirt, but the linen caught around his shoulder.
“Leave me the arm,” he grunted. “I need it.”
“Use the other one.”
He dragged the shirt over his head, ducking his head to miss the low deck beam. Catherine unbuttoned her waistcoat and let it drop. Another iron pin fell out, clinking against the floor, and her hair came down all at once in a thick, heavy tangle. Cormac pushed it back off her face.
“Better,” he said.
His skin was hot under her palms. She knew every mark on him the faded bruise on his jaw, the thin white line under his ribs where a stay-sail block had caught him two years ago, the spot on his hip that made him flinch if you touched it unexpected.
She reached for his breeches. Cormac’s hands went to her waist, his thumb dragging over her hip bone until she missed the top button and swore.
He laughed soft against her mouth. “No hurry.”
“Keep talking and I’ll button them back up.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
She got the flap open and slid her hand inside. His breath hitched, the joke dying instantly.
Catherine pushed him back until the edge of the berth hit his calves. He sat down hard, and she went with him, keeping her hand between his thighs.
“Watch the bulkhead,” she whispered.
“Aye. Will’ll be in here with his rule if I break it.”
She unlaced her own breeches and kicked them off. Cormac reached for her, but she caught his wrists and held them down.
“Wait.”
She shifted down between his thighs, took him in her hand, and leaned down. Cormac’s head hit the wall behind him with a dull thud when her tongue touched him.
He was thick and hot, tasting of salt and skin. Catherine took her time, using her hand to work what she couldn’t take, watching the lazy look in his eyes vanish. When she drew him deeper, his hips jerked up off the mattress.
She pulled back, resting a hand on his thigh. “Steady.”
His chest rose and fell fast. His hand came up to touch her cheek, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone, light and careful.
Catherine wasn’t used to him looking at her like that. It made her chest feel tight. She lowered her head again before he could say anything stupid.
This time he stayed still, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress so hard his knuckles went white. She kept her pace slow and deliberate until his breathing was ragged and he couldn’t keep his hips from twitching.
Then he reached down, caught her under the arms, and hauled her up the bed.
“Cormac—”
“Quiet.”
He flipped her onto her back before she could fight him off. Her knee slammed into the bulkhead.
“You brute.”
“Move your leg.”
She did, just in time to feel his mouth between her thighs.
Catherine’s head hit the pillow. Damn him.
His tongue was rough and warm, pressing hard right where she needed it. Her fingers tangled in his wet hair, intent on pulling him off, but he knew her body too well. Two fingers slid inside her, wet and deep, and her hips lifted off the bed before she could stop them.
He knew he had her. She could feel the tilt of his mouth against her skin.
He slowed down, teasing the opening with his thumb while his fingers worked inside her, bringing her right to the edge and keeping her there until her teeth were grinding together.
“Cormac, damn you—”
“Come here.”
He stopped, pulling back just enough to sit up against the bulkhead. His chest was slick with sweat, his face dark in the lantern light.
Catherine scrambled up, straddling his lap with her knees dug into the thin mattress. She grabbed his cock, guiding him to her opening, and pushed down.
The stretch was hard and thick, filling her until she had to stop and catch her breath with her forehead resting against his collarbone. Cormac’s hands were tight on her hips, holding her steady, his breathing as loud as her own in the small cabin.
“All right?” he rasped.
Catherine didn’t answer. She lifted herself and sank back down, hard.
Cormac let out a choked sound, his head snapping back against the timber. “Christ, Cat.”
She took the lead, set a fast, hard rhythm that left no room for talking. The berth creaked against the floorboards with every stroke. She leaned forward, gripping his shoulders, her skin hot where it pressed against his.
Cormac held his control until she was beginning to enjoy testing it. Then it snapped.
His hands locked onto her waist, lifting her off him and driving her back down so hard the lantern swung on its hook.
“Again,” she gasped.
He did.
He pulled her tight against his chest, his mouth finding the sensitive spot beneath her ear, biting down until she cried out. His thumb found her clit between them, pressing hard with every upward thrust.
Her legs were shaking. The room seemed to narrow down to the heat between her thighs and the heavy, brutal rhythm of his hips.
He slowed down again, holding her pinned against him.
“Don’t,” she breathed, her forehead buried in his neck. “Don’t stop.”
“Ask me.”
Catherine went stiff. “I’ll shoot you.”
“Ask me, Cat.”
He shifted just enough to pull back, leaving her empty and aching.
“Please,” she snapped, the word sharp and furious.
Cormac let out a rough laugh, his composure cracking, and slammed back into her.
She came instantly, her body clamping down on him so tight he groaned aloud. He held her through it, his own thrusts becoming short and desperate until he came with a low growl, his face buried in her hair.
For a long time, neither of them moved. The cabin smelled of sweat, salt, and cooling tallow. Cormac’s breathing slowed against her neck, his hands resting loose on her hips.
Eventually, the berth gave a loud creak under their weight.
Cormac let out a dry cough. “Please, was it?”
Catherine reached back and shoved her elbow into his ribs. “Shut up.”
“I have witnesses.”
“You have a knife in your future if you don’t let me down.”
She rolled off him onto the far side of the bed. Cormac reached for the tin basin on the floor, wet a rag, and wiped her down without a word. He was careful, his rough hands surprisingly light where he’d left red marks on her hips.
Catherine closed her eyes, letting him do it. It was the gentleness that always caught her off guard. She knew how to handle the swearing, the drinking, and the fighting. This was harder to deal with.
“Move over,” he grunted, tossing the rag aside.
“You have the whole bed.”
“You’re on the blanket.”
Ten minutes later, Cormac had taken three-quarters of the pillow.
Catherine gave it a sharp yank. He slid an inch, pretending to be fast asleep.
She reached under the cover and pressed her freezing toes directly against his calf.
He flinched so hard he nearly hit his head on the deck beam. “Jesus! Your feet are like ice!”
“Give me the pillow.”
“You’ve got half of it!”
“I have a corner.”
He grumbled something in Irish, shifting over until she had room to lay her head down properly. The ship rolled, a timber groaned in the bulkhead, and the sea hissed along the outer hull.
Cormac reached onto the shelf, grabbed the wine cup, and took a swallow.
“It’s still terrible,” Catherine said into the dark.
“It’s wet.”
“There’s water in the barrel.”
“Will’s boots were in the water.”
He set the cup down with a clatter and rolled onto his side, facing her. His hand reached out, his thumb finding the white scar on her left wrist. He ran his skin over it, back and forth.
“Don’t,” she said.
“Not doing anything.”
“You’re picking.”
“I’m touching your arm.”
Catherine turned her wrist and caught his fingers, locking them in hers so he’d stop moving.
They lay there in the dark, hands joined between them on the blanket. Outside, the wind hummed in the shrouds.
Three hard thuds rattled the cabin door.
Cormac’s fingers tightened around hers, then let go. “What?”
“Sail on the starboard quarter,” Jay’s voice came through the oak. “No lights. She’s coming up fast.”
Catherine was out of the berth before Jay finished speaking. Cormac swung his legs over the side, reaching for his breeches in the dark.
“How far?” Cormac called out.
“Too far to see her guns. But she’s making two knots on us.”
“On our way.”
Footsteps hurried back toward the hatch. The quiet in the cabin vanished.
Catherine pulled her shirt over her head, her hair tangling in the collar. She snatched a leather thong off the table and tied it back in a tight knot, ignoring the pull at her scalp.
“My boot,” Cormac muttered, feeling around the floor on his hands and knees.
“Under the chair.”
She pulled her breeches on, stomped into her boots, and reached for her waistcoat. The seam she’d unstitched earlier hung open, showing a flash of white shirt beneath.
She ignored it, buckling her sword belt tight around her waist. Cormac grabbed her heavy coat off the peg and held it open for her. She shoved her arms into the sleeves, and he slid the door bolt back.
The wine cup on the shelf tapped rhythmically against the bulkhead as the ship took a heavy swell.
The night air hit Catherine like a bucket of cold water as she stepped onto the quarterdeck.
Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark. The ship took shape around her. The dark curve of the wheel, the thick lines of the rigging against the clouds, and Isaiah standing by the starboard rail with the brass glass tucked under his arm.
Cormac reached him first. “Where?”
“Starboard quarter. Under that break in the cloud.” Isaiah pointed. “Toby spotted her first. She’s carrying topgallants.”
Catherine moved to the rail, gripping the cold teak.
There.
A pale triangle rising out of the black water, dropping, then rising again.
Cormac took the glass from Isaiah. “Can you see her lines?”
“Too dark. But she’s not a merchantman, moves too clean.”
Catherine looked up at their own rigging. The foretopsail was reefed down, the extra canvas bunched and tied off.
“When did you reef?” Cormac asked.
“An hour ago,” Isaiah said. “Wind picked up. The seam next to Ruth’s patch started to give.”
Catherine bit the inside of her cheek. Of course it gave. Ruth’s thread was strong enough to hold an anchor, but the canvas around it was rot-thin.
Cormac lowered the glass. “We can’t outrun her like this.”
“Not with three reefs in the top,” Isaiah agreed.
He held the glass out to Catherine. She took it, rested her elbow on the rail to steady her arm, and brought the cylinder to her eye.
The circle of glass showed black water, a streak of white foam, and then—for three seconds—the vessel. Two masts, square-rigged, black hull. No lights showing anywhere on deck.
She was riding the same wind, coming up hand-over-fist.
“She knew where to look,” Cormac muttered beside her.
“Or she was waiting outside the bay,” Isaiah said.
Jay had come aft, his face pale in the gloom. The boatswain stood behind him, staring up at the strained topsail. Forward, half a dozen hands were standing by the rail, pretending to coil line while watching the quarterdeck.
Cormac looked up at the creaking mast. “Will the cloth take it if we shake out the reef?”
Isaiah looked up too. He didn’t answer right away. “It might hold for an hour. Or it might rip from leech to luff the second the wind catches it.”
If the topsail blew, they’d lose all headway. They’d be dead in the water in the dark with an unknown ship closing on them.
Down in the waist, someone laughed, a quick, nervous sound that cut off fast.
Catherine looked down at the main hatch. The ship was quiet now, but in ten minutes it wouldn’t be. They needed the other watch on deck. They needed the guns cleared, the matches lit, and the sand spread on the deck, all without showing a light to tell the stranger who they were.
Cormac’s shoulder brushed hers as he stepped closer. She could still smell the lye soap on his skin.
Twenty minutes ago they were arguing over a blanket. Now Isaiah was looking at her. Jay was looking at her. Cormac was waiting.
Catherine turned the brass glass in her hands, feeling the cold metal. She looked up at the pale patch on the topsail one last time.
“Keep the reef in,” she said.
Isaiah nodded once.
Cormac didn’t argue.
Catherine handed the glass back to Isaiah and turned to Jay. “Call the watch. No pipes, no shouting. Tell the gunner to clear the battery, but leave the ports lowered until I give the word. No open lanterns on deck.”
Jay was already moving toward the hatch. “Aye, Captain.”
