Ship of Destiny (60 page)

And now she was here. Someone had dressed her in a man’s nightshirt of very fine linen, and warm woolen blankets covered her legs. Someone had cared for her with kindness. She seized on that as a sign; the truce negotiations had gone well. Brashen was probably on board right now, talking with Captain Kennit. That would explain why she had not been returned to the
Paragon
. She’d dress and go to find them, right after she went forward to see the figurehead. She had been parted from her ship for far too long. Once she had words with Vivacia, surely she could resolve whatever barrier divided them.

She glanced about the room but saw no sign of her own clothing. There were shirts and trousers hung on pegs, however, and they looked about her size. This was no time to be shy; later she would thank whoever had surrendered his room and clothes to her. Probably the mate. The books on the shelf showed him to be a man of some education. Her respect for Kennit increased. The quality of a crew said a great deal about the captain. She suspected she would get along well with the pirate. In a habitual motion that dated back to her childhood aboard the ship, she reached up and put her palms flat to the exposed beam of wizardwood overhead. “Vivacia,” she greeted her warmly. “I’m back. I’ve come to take you home.”

The impact slammed her back against the mattress. Dazed, she lay flat, looking up at the ceiling overhead. Had she struck her head somehow? It made no sense. Nothing had hit her, but the sensation was as stunning. She looked at her palms, half-expecting them to be reddened. “Vivacia?” she queried cautiously. She tried again to sense her ship, but felt nothing.

She gathered her courage and again reached up to the beam. A finger’s length short of touching, she stopped. Antagonism radiated from the wood like heat from a fire. She pressed against it. It was like pushing her hand into packed snow. Cold and burning both engulfed her fingers, followed by a spreading numbness. She set her teeth and pressed on. “Vivacia,” she grated. “Ship, it’s me. Althea Vestrit. I’ve come for you.” The opposition to her touch only grew stronger.

She heard a key turn in a lock and the door was flung open. She spared a glance for the man framed in the entry. A tall man, he was handsome and well-dressed. The scent of sandalwood came with him. He carried a tray with a steaming bowl on it. His gleaming black hair shone, and his moustache was precisely curled. There was white lace at his throat and cuffs, and a diamond that any dandy would envy sparkled in one ear, but the wide shoulders of his well-cut blue coat proclaimed him far from effete. He leaned on a crutch of brass and polished wood, a carefully chosen accoutrement rather than a tool for a cripple. He had to be Kennit.

“Don’t!” he warned her. He shut the door behind him, set the tray on her table and crossed the room in two sloping strides. “Don’t, I said. She’ll only hurt you.” He seized her wrists in his strong hands and pulled them away from the beam. She felt suddenly dizzied from both the effort and the numbing rejection. She knew what Vivacia had done to her. The ship had subtly stirred every self-doubt Althea had ever harbored and awakened in her mind every memory of bad judgment, selfishness or stupidity that the ship had ever witnessed. She burned with shame at how inferior a person she was, even as logic tried to assert itself.

“She’ll only hurt you,” Kennit repeated. He kept possession of her wrists. After one attempt to pull free of him, Althea subsided. He was strong. Better to behave with dignity than react like a thwarted child.

She met his pale blue eyes. He smiled at her reassuringly and waited. “Why?” she demanded. “Why should she try to hurt me? She’s my ship.”

His smile widened. “And I’m pleased to meet you also, Althea Vestrit. I trust you feel better.” His eyes roved over her frankly. “You look much better than when I first fished you out. You vomited quite a quantity of sea water onto my clean deck.”

It was precisely the right mixture of wryly polished comments to remind her of manners, situation and her debt to him. She let her hands relax, and as soon as she did, he released her wrists, giving her hands a reassuring pat in passing. Her cheeks burned. “I beg your pardon,” she said very sincerely. “I presume you are Captain Kennit. I am sure you saved my life, and I do thank you. But to have my own ship so reject me is—” She sought for a word. “Beyond distressing,” she finished lamely.

“Oh, I am sure it is devastating.” Casually he reached up and set his palm gently to the silvery gray wood overhead. “To both of you. You must give one another time. I am sure you are not who you were the last time you were aboard this ship. And the ship is certainly not.” He added quietly as he lowered his hand, “No creature of any sensitivity could endure what she has and be unchanged by it.” He leaned closer to add in a whisper, “Give her time. Take time to meet her and accept her as she is. And be tolerant of her anger. It is well-rooted, and justified.” His warm breath was scented with cloves. Without ceremony, he seated himself on the bed beside her. “For now, tell me this. Are you feeling better?”

“Much better, thank you. Where is Jek, the woman who was with me? Is Brashen aboard? Did the serpents damage Paragon much? How did you run them off? My nephew Wintrow, is he alive and well?” With each question she asked, another formed behind it, until Kennit leaned forward to set two fingers to her lips. She bridled at the touch, then endured it, forcing herself to realize he probably meant nothing by it.

“Hush,” he said gently. “Hush. One at a time, though you should not be fussing yourself with such things. You have been through quite enough for one day. Jek is sleeping very soundly. A serpent must have brushed her; one leg and her ribs were scalded, but I am confident she will heal well. I gave her some poppy syrup for the pain. For now, I suggest we do not disturb her.”

A sudden disturbing question rose in her. “Then who took care of me? Put me to bed here?” Her hand reached reflexively to the buttoned collar of the nightshirt.

“I did.” He spoke quietly without looking at her. A smile teased at the corner of his mouth, but he kept it at bay. “It was scarcely a duty I would entrust to my deckhands, and there are no women on board.”

Althea’s face burned.

“I brought you something.” He rose as he spoke, and tucked his crutch back under his arm. He crossed the room to the table, took up the tray he had brought, and carried it back to her bedside. Despite his missing leg, he moved with the rolling grace of a true seaman. She moved her legs to make a place for the tray. He set it down and then took a place next to it. “This is wine and brandy, mulled with spices. It’s an old Divvytown recipe, very warming, very restoring, and excellent for pain. Do try some, while I talk. It is best when it is warmest.”

She lifted the bowl in both hands. The rising fumes were themselves a comfort. Dark spices swirled in the bottom of the amber liquid. She lifted it to her mouth and sipped. Warmth spread through her, unknotting tension, and a sudden shiver raced up her, bringing gooseflesh to her arms. It was as if her body had trapped the cold of the sea inside it and was only now letting it go.

“That’s better,” Kennit said encouragingly. “Let me see. Wintrow is not on board the ship at the moment. He is serving on the
Marietta
under Sorcor, my second-in-command. I have discovered that moving a promising man from ship to ship and giving him shifting responsibilities encourages him to develop his seamanship and his ability to think for himself. You have realized, no doubt, that you occupy his room and his bed just now. Don’t trouble yourself about that. He is perfectly comfortable where he is, and I know he would begrudge you nothing.”

“Thank you,” she said carefully. She tried to compose her thoughts. Kennit obviously thought of Wintrow as his, someone to train up for heavier responsibility, like a son in a family business. She had never envisioned this situation, and she could not decide how to react to it. “It is kind of you to afford him such opportunities,” she heard herself say. A part of her was shocked at the words. Kind of him to afford Wintrow the opportunity to become a better pirate? She tried to force order on her thoughts. “I must ask this. How does Vivacia react to Wintrow being gone? It is not good for a liveship to be left long without a family member aboard her.”

“Please. Drink that while it is warm,” he encouraged her. As she obeyed, he glanced down at the bed between them, as if he feared his next words would displease her. “Vivacia has been fine. The ship does not miss Wintrow that much. You see, she has me.” He reached up again to caress the silver-gray beams. “What I have discovered is that ‘family’ is not so important to a ship as a kindred spirit. Vivacia and I share many of the same qualities: a love for adventure, a hatred for the slave trade, a desire to—”

“I think I know my own ship,” Althea broke in but Kennit’s mild blue glance gently reproved her. She lifted the bowl and drank from it to cover her discomfiture. The warmth of the liquor was spreading through her now, relaxing her. A wave of vertigo swept her. She felt Kennit’s hands steady the bowl she held.

“You are more weary than you know,” he said sympathetically. “You were quite a long time in very cold water. And now my careless words have distressed you as well. I am sure this is difficult for you to face. Perhaps you thought you were coming to rescue the ship and your nephew. Instead you have discovered you would be tearing them away from a world they love. Please. Rest for a time before we talk more. Your exhaustion is making you see the worst side of everything. Wintrow is strong and happy and convinced that he has discovered Sa’s will for him. The ship is avid in her pursuit of slavers, and enjoys the adventure of the life we lead. You should rejoice for them. And you are safely aboard your family ship. From this moment, things can only get better for you.”

She drank until the spices at the bottom bumped against her lips. He took the bowl from her hands and caught her as she swayed. He smelled nice. Sandalwood. Cloves. She leaned her head against the shoulder of the fine blue jacket. The lace at his neck tickled against her face. Lace would do well on Brashen. And a jacket such as this. “I like lace on a man,” she observed. Kennit cleared his throat. She felt her face flush. “I’m dizzy,” she apologized, trying to straighten herself. “I should not have drunk that so fast. It’s gone right to my head.”

“No, no, that’s all right. You’re expecting too much of yourself. Here. Lie back.” A gentleman to the bone, he evaded her embarrassment.

He hopped from the bunk to stand on his leg while he straightened her pillow for her. Obediently she lay back. The cabin rocked around her. “Is the storm building?” she asked anxiously.

“Here in the Pirate Isles, we consider this only a squall. We’ll be out of it soon. We’ll anchor in a sheltered cove and let this pass. Don’t be concerned. Vivacia can handle a much harder blow than this.”

“I know. I remember.” She expected him to leave. Instead, he came back to her bedside. Memories swirled through her mind, of another tall dark-haired man standing by her bunk. Her father had taken Vivacia through many a storm with Althea on board. When she was small, this ship had been the safest place in the world. The
Vivacia
had been her father’s world, where he controlled everything and never let her come to harm. All would be safe, all would be well. There was a strong man in command of the ship, and a steady hand on the wheel. She closed her heavy eyes. It had been a long time since she had felt so safe.

KENNIT LOOKED DOWN ON HER. HER HAIR, CURLING WITH DAMP,
tangled on the pillow. The eyelashes on her cheeks were not so long as Wintrow’s, but even up close, the resemblance was uncanny. He pulled the blankets up and tucked them securely around her. She did not stir. He wasn’t surprised. He’d already tested the mixture of poppy and mandrake in brandy on Jek. She would sleep deeply, and he would have time to ponder his role and how to deal with her questions.

Paragon had perished with all hands. So sad. The serpents had attacked in response to Brashen’s arrows. That might work, as long as she never spoke to any of the crew. Could he keep her that isolated without rousing her suspicions? It was going to be difficult to concoct the right lies, but something would come to him.

He stood a time longer looking down on her. She was Wintrow, in female form. With his forefinger, he traced the curve of her cheek, the arch of her brow, the flare of her nostrils. Bingtown Trader stock, well-born and raised well. There was no mistaking one’s own kind. When he bent over and kissed her, her lax lips were warm. Her unresponsive mouth teased his with the taste of the spices and brandy. He could take her right now if he wanted to. No one else would know; she herself might not even realize he had done it. Such an amusing idea curved his lips in a true smile. His fingers started on the top button of the nightshirt. His own nightshirt, he thought, and it was as if he undressed himself. She breathed deeply and steadily.

“You only want her because she resembles the boy,” the charm said snidely. The nasty little voice shattered the peace in the room.

Kennit froze. He glared down at the noxious thing. Its small eyes glittered up at him. Were there truly blue sparks in the carved wood, or did he imagine them? The etched mouth turned down in disgust at him.

“And you only want the boy because he so reminds you of yourself at that age. Only, in reality, you were much younger when Igrot dragged you to his bed.”

“Shut up!” Kennit hissed. Those memories were forbidden. They had all gone to the bottom with Paragon. What else had all this been for, if not to destroy those memories? For the charm to speak such words endangered everything. Everything. He knew now he would have to destroy the thing.

“It won’t help,” it mocked him. “Destroy me, and Bolt will know why. But I tell you this. Take this woman against her will, and the whole ship will know why you wanted her. I will see to it. And I will see that Wintrow is the first to know.”

“Why? What do you want of me?” Kennit’s question was an infuriated whisper.

“I want Etta back on this ship. And Wintrow. For my own reasons. I warn you. Both Bolt and I would find rape extremely distasteful. Among dragons, it is not done.”