Eilidh looked down at her gloved hands, her thumb running once more over the scar hidden on her palm.
Yes.
That was precisely what she wished.
She wanted to putallthis behind her.
She wanted to leave this place—to return to Yorkshire and Simon and the cocooned life she had fought so hard to claim—and never think uponThe Minervaor its crew again.
Her missing memory becoming like the scar on her hand—a small blemish she scarcely noticed.
7
September 1815
Jamie was still avoiding him.
Kieran’s fingers tapped out a frustrated tattoo on his upper thigh.
The lad had readily jumped into being a member of their brotherhood. A day didn’t pass without Kieran seeing Jamie laughing with Andrew, or watching Ewan show him how to carve figures from wood, or helping Alex mix a tincture. Jamie had even begun learning how to fence with Rafe.
But Kieran?
Nothing.
Three weeks on and Jamie continued to give him the cold shoulder.
Every time Kieran had approached and attempted a conversation, the lad clammed up, bent his head over some bit of wood, and responded with monosyllabic grunts. As if he couldn’t wait for Kieran to be gone.
But then, Kieran would find the lad studying him at odd times. Like when he stood on the forecastle, reveling in the vast expanse of the ocean. Or when, in the equatorial heat, Kieran and Rafe had stripped to the waist and fenced until they dripped with sweat. Jamie had watched with wide-eyed fascination. Kieran, mopping his brow with his shirt, had even tried to talk to Jamie afterward. But the youth had merely folded his arms and stared at his feet, his jaw mulishly clenched.
Did Jamie truly hate him so much? How could Kieran help the boy if Jamie never accepted his genuine offer of friendship?
Presently, Kieran scoured the rain-soaked deck. The crew were laughing and calling to one another, everyone in some state of undress.
Rain decorated the ocean around them with concentric rings.
It was the kind of storm one occasionally experienced in the Doldrums—warm, fresh rain without high seas. Kieran had immediately ordered all empty water casks to be brought up from the hold, allowing the rain to fill what it could.
Along with that, he commanded the scuppers be stopped up, forcing the rain to pool on deck instead of running off. The crew were ordered to wash their clothing and bathe—the first proper bath in nearly a month.
Kieran had hoped Jamie Fyffe might wash himself properly for once.
But as he surveyed the deck, looking in and around the water casks, the boy was nowhere to be seen. Mr. Chen was near the forecastle, talking with their cook, Mr. Aksoy. But the carpenter’s grimy mate was notably missing.
Kieran pulled on his wet—but now clean—shirt, the linen fabric sticking to him. Thankfully, they were in the tropics, so the warm air would dry everything within an hour or two of the rain letting up.
The members of the Brotherhood were laughing together near the mizzenmast, stripped to the waist and passing around a bar of soap. Jamie wasn’t with them.
“Have ye seen Jamie?” Kieran asked Ewan. “I cannae find the lad, but ye be a head taller than everyone else, mayhap ye can see him?”
Ewan’s eyes flashed wide. He spun in a circle, easily looking over the crowd of men. He shook his head, wiping rain out of his eyes.
“Nay. I cannae see him.” Ewan looked down at Kieran. “Wee little mite, that boy, dinnae ye think? Bit scrawny, even for a lad of fifteen.”
Rafe shot Ewan a hard look. Ewan shrugged.
“Agreed,” Kieran frowned, too frustrated to parse the odd conversational undercurrent. “We need tae clean him up and then see that he gets more rations.”
