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The cold sea air brushed over me and I shivered deeper into my blanket, my hammock swaying with the waves. All around me, everyone who wasn't on watch slept, the sounds of snores and mumbled phrases reaching my ears every now and then. Beside me, Father Torres rocked in his own bed, seemingly oblivious to the world around him. My senses jumped at every creak, my heart racing a million miles a minute as I contemplated survival here.
Alfonso had, belatedly, realized the mistake in his story when I returned below deck and was instantly assaulted by demands to show my stump of a tongue. His quick wit had him weaving another tale that gave an excuse for why I didn't like showing it, but some of the crew hadn't appeared that impressed by any of it. Somehow, I just knew that I was going to end up in a fight because of all of it and I would have no idea how to take care of myself.
The floor squeaked next to me and I held my breath, waiting to hear anything else that would prove I was only paranoid. There was a rustling sound, and suddenly a hand clapped over my mouth, another pair of hands seizing my shoulders and holding me down. The tip of a knife swam into view as I struggled, thrashing about silently.
“Show us yer tongue,” a voice laughed softly, instantly hushed by another.
“Shut up! Do you want to wake everyone?” It was the man who'd threatened to cut out my voice box.
“They all want to see it, too,” the other mate argued, sounding put off.
“I'm telling you, he's got his whole tongue, you dolt. They made the entire thing up.”
“Why would they do that?”
My struggling was reaping no benefits and I haltingly fell still, my breath puffing through the fingers of my assailant.
His face finally came into view in the dark, a fuzzy outline of a shape behind the very clear image of his blade. “I intend to find out.” The tip of the metal pressed down against my cheek, digging into my skin without drawing blood. “Tell us, Samuel. Why would you lie about having a stump for a tongue?”
Trying to pull my shoulders free without slicing my face, I struggled again, desperately wishing I were flexible enough to kick him in the back of the head. The other man laughed, a low sound that barely reached my ears.
“I'll kindly remind ye that what yer doing could mean yer life.” Tristan’s voice carried dangerously in the darkness, but was full of threats both men seemed to hear, the three of us freezing immediately. “There is no torture or wounding among the crew here. If ye believe Mr. Smith is lying, ye may accuse him in front of the whole crew, as is accepted. If ye continue further, I'll keelhaul ye myself, Thomas Randall.”
The knife remained against my skin for a moment, Thomas deciding what would be done. Finally, it was slowly pulled away, and the hands holding my shoulders lifted.
“Excuse us, O’Rourke,” the man I recognized—Thomas Randall—said. “We were only curious. It's of no matter.”
“Be on yer way then,” Tristan ordered. “And don't let me find ye back here again.”
“Aye, sir.”
The two men then left as silently as they came, myself still in bed, trying to stave off the panic that had flooded me seconds earlier. Wrapping the blanket tighter around myself, I hid my face, trying to rub away the tingling spot where the knife had been.
“Come with me, Sam.” His voice was so gentle I almost didn't hear it, moving toward his own quarters. Following obediently, I did my best not to bump into anyone, trailing so closely I almost stepped on him, as if I were afraid he was going to disappear.
When we reached the solitude of his room and the door was closed behind us, a huge breath of relief gushed from me, and I leaned back against the entrance, sliding to the floor as I removed my hat.
“Whiskey?” Holding out a glass, he poured a good amount of drink into it before letting me have it.
“Thank you,” I croaked, my voice shocked by its sudden use. The alcohol did wonders in warming my vocal chords and I drank it greedily, wincing at the fiery taste.
“Now,” he spoke, settling down onto the bed. “Why don't ye tell me exactly what it is ye think yer doing back at sea?”
Grimacing, I looked down, not sure how to tell him, or what to include for that manner. “I'm simply trying to go home,” I finally said. “I have to get back to Oak Isle.”
“That's not yer home.” Shaking his head, he poured himself a glass and downed it in one gulp. “I'd have remembered a lass like ye. No, ye’ve never even been in those parts until we picked ye up and carried ye away.”
I didn't know if I was supposed to be flattered by his comments or not, but it didn't matter. Somehow, I had to make him realize I really needed to return, and not just for silly reasons. “I'd just moved there,” I offered smoothly. “I lived much further west before.”
“The only thing west of Acadia is wilderness and Indians. I highly doubt ye were living with those savages, though it would seem that Samuel has spent some time among them.” He broke out into a wide grin, chuckling with a bright sparkle in his eye. “I'll give the padre one thing; he can tell one hoot of a story.”
“You mean he can tell a story he didn't think through,” I grumbled. “I'm going to have to keep my mouth shut forever, or risk being found out.”
“Aye, or be accused by someone like Thomas.” He took another swig of whiskey, setting the glass down somewhat hard on the desk when he was finished. “Watch out for him, lassie. He’s not one to be trifled with.”
“I know.” I didn't remember having ever seen Thomas before, but now that I'd met him I was sure he was the same man who told the captain of my presence when I’d first been taken prisoner. So, not only had he threatened me at knifepoint twice now, but he'd tried to get me raped. If those actions were any indicator to his character, Thomas Randall was someone I never wished to see again, let alone be stuck on a ship with.
“So,” he said after a moment’s silence. “Am I to assume if I drop ye at port again, ye’ll sneak onto another ship as a man?”
I grinned in spite of myself and blushed, wondering if I was imagining the small amount of awe I'd heard in his voice.
“That's what ye were doing, with the captain, then? Stealing his clothes? Blimey woman, I thought ye’d gone to his bed willingly! I could hardly look at ye when ye came out. I wanted to be mad at ye forever, but when ye started speaking I couldn't do it. I'll hope ye forgive me for not taking ye to my cousin’s like I promised. It looks as though it would have made no difference.”
“You were mad at me?” He was staring in a way that made my entire body tingle and I found myself rising, moving toward him like we were two magnetic forces, drawn together unconsciously.
“Yes. I couldn't stand the thought of his lips on yer skin when—when I knew it should have been my lips and my lap ye were cradled in.” Rising from the bed, he closed the distance between us, wrapping me in his embrace and brushing his mouth against mine.
My entire body trembled as I held onto him, drinking in everything that he was giving me. His touch was instantly soothing, melting away all of my other thoughts and troubles until there was only us.
“Why did ye come back?” There was a hint of mourning in his voice as he pulled away, resting his forehead against mine, his fingers playing with the hair that brushed down my back.
“I told you. I need to go home,” I sighed. “And this is the only way I know how to do it.” He smelled of the meat we'd had for dinner and iron, his shirt dirtied from earlier in the day.
“It'll be dangerous, keeping ye right beneath everyone's noses. Are ye sure ye can handle it?” Pressing his face into my hair, he nuzzled my ear, his teeth grazing over the lobe as he made his way down to my neck.
“I'll be fine,” I murmured, my mind not really on the state of my affairs on the ship. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I tilted my head to the side, giving him better access to where his lips were dancing across my skin. A small groan escaped and he bit me softly, brushing my hair out of the way.
My
heart pounded in my chest and all I could think about was how perfect this seemed to feel, like I was made to be touched by him. In all my life, each of my romantic endeavors, I'd never experienced this. It was suddenly very clear to me how wars were fought over passion like this, families torn apart, and lives ended.
At the same time, there was fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of knowing what lie ahead in the future, fear of being stuck here, and fear of being sent back through time. It didn't seem possible to be terrified of both outcomes, but I was. All I knew was that when Tristan touched me, I knew I was safe and would remain so as long as I was with him. I trusted him completely, despite knowing so little about him.
And what was I to him? Did he feel the same as I did whenever we were together? Doubt whispered it was all in my head, but my heart and my body told me he felt it, too. Something was drawing us together.
“Tristan?”
“Hmmm?”
“What is this? Between you and I, I mean.”
Pulling away, his burning eyes stared into mine, a hunger I'd never seen him display before present in them. “I don't quite know. But I intend to find out.”