“I see...” Hurtheven paused, eyes fixed on the place Chev’s hand should have been.
Acid bitterness burned within—hatred for his assigned part asThe Wounded Man,frustration he could be stranded on an island of solitude even when standing next to his oldest friend.
And then there were Hurtheven’s unasked questions.Allunasked questions charged the air much like an impending storm—force in want of a target. Everyone—even Hurtheven—expected him to absorb the strike.
“Askfor heaven’s sake,” he demanded. “Ifeelthe question, regardless.”
Hurtheven looked off into the distance and rubbed the back of his neck.
“You want to know how it happened,” Chev said. “Well, there was a lead ball, you see, which a flint spark sent hurtling through a small barrel directly into my wrist. And I suppose you want to know how it feels to have pieces of sinew-dressed bone too small to pick one’s teeth strewn across one’s breeches, too. The answer? Plenty pleasant.”
The pain had been excruciating. The humiliation, worse.
Pourquoi as-tu couru?Why did you run?Tu es à moi.You are mine.
The pirate always usedtunotvous—you, familiar. You, intimate. You, shattering.
“A surgeon took it off,” he finished.
“And what of prison?” Hurtheven asked, unperturbed.
“Prison?” If Cheverley had merely been in prison, he’d have been released during theTreaty of Amiens,something Hurtheven would have already guessed.
Chev kicked the earth. He hadn’t been in prison. Not as men defined the word.
He’d been captive, yes. Held by a band of privateer pirates led by a woman who called herself Calypso. A woman whose husband Chev accidentally shot and killed. He regretted firing that ball more than he regretted the ball that had cost him his arm.
The latter was proof he’d tried to escape. Proof he’d never given into despair.
Until now?
He clenched his teeth.
Is that what he’d be doing if he did not return to Pensteague? Giving in to despair? A low buzz sounded in his ears.
“One would think,” Hurtheven said, “learning to shoot with your teeth is a task more difficult than trusting your oldest friend.”
Chev pursed his lips. Then, he shook his head no. “Can’t.”
“Can’t,” Hurtheven repeated. “You survived a wreck that destroyed a sixty-four-gun ship, crossed the bloody English Channel in a makeshift raft, taught yourself to fire arrowswith your teethbut you cannot tell me where the devil you’ve been the past six years?”
Chev considered. Then, he shook his head again.
“I’m finished with patience, Chev. The Admiralty insisted you remain hidden for a time. But that business with the Admiral Stone, his widowed wife, and his mistress is over.” He paused to catch his breath. “Don’t you think it’s time you return toyourwife?”
“Can’t,” he repeated, voice cracking. This time, he didn’t need to consider. How could he return to Penelope’s pity? Her scorn?
“Can’t,” Hurtheven scoffed.
He grasped for something to staunch the onslaught. “Penelope has chosen to move on. You read the story in the gazette.”
Hurtheven sighed. “I havegood reasonto doubt that bit of gossip.”
She is unwed. Yet.
Hawk-like creatures batted their wings inside Chev’s mind, clogging his throat and ears and setting his stomach to churn.
“What are you saying?”
