“I didn’t volunteer, he asked me to. But are you under the impression that proper stitching isn’t going to hurt?”
“So you just want to cause him more pain?”
“Of course, why else would I be doing this?” she quipped. “You can leave now.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m sleeping in here again tonight.”
That gave her pause. “Why?”
“You don’t want a chaperone?”
She snorted.
Mortimer crossed over to the dining table to get a plate off the larger tray Jackie had brought before adding, “I was talked into giving up my cabin for the prisoners. Damon insisted I share his.”
Damon? Bastard was giving up his name this time? Or had Mort just revealed something he shouldn’t. But he didn’t look as if he’d just blundered, and when she glanced at Bastard or, rather, Damon, he didn’t look as if he cared. What the devil was different this time?
She’d asked for his name before, but he’d refused to give it. She’d been kept utterly isolated before, at least until Catherine had been allowed into the cabin to convince her to eat and, when she wouldn’t, had let slip that Damon was her lover. There was no accounting for taste between criminals, she supposed, but really, the man would have done better with anyone other than that nasty witch. But this time, sailors, first mates, even cabin boys, had been let in to see her. Something was definitely different. Damon hadn’t said what and probably wouldn’t if asked. But she still tried.
“Damon is your real name?”
“I prefer Bastard.”
“So do I,” she snapped.
She should have known he wouldn’t enlighten her, but realized it could simply be because she would be dying this time along with her father. So it didn’t matter whom she could identify or what names she knew.
That thought made her grip the needle like a weapon, but only briefly. Be nice! Honey, not spit and fire. She took a deep breath and followed Damon to the bed, where he had lain down to accommodate her. Damon. The name had a nice ring to it, but she wasn’t sure she’d call him that when she was too used to calling him Bastard. She supposed she could try, in the interest of her plan.
“This will hurt,” she warned as she sat down on the edge of the bed. “The wound needs at least four stitches to keep it closed, but then you should be able to dress properly tomorrow without staining your shirts, with another bandage to guarantee it.”
“Might as well make it five stitches then, just to be sure.”
“Really?”
“Have at it, Jack, so we can eat. I apologize for delaying your dinner. It’s been a long, tiring day.”
The moment he’d entered the room, she’d forgotten how hungry she was. Now, she felt nervous. This wasn’t white cloth pulled tight over an embroidery frame, but real skin, his skin.
She met his eyes. “Maybe you should get foxed first?”
He chuckled. “No, I’ll be fine and so will you. Imagine you still hate me.”
She pressed the needle through, but had to pause when her stomach churned. She wished she could close her eyes, but couldn’t.Just get it over with! You do hate him with every fiber of your body, but imagine he’s white cloth....
She leapt away from the bed as soon as she tied off the last stitch and almost knocked down Mortimer, who’d come up silently behind her to watch. “That is a neat bit of stitching, girl.”
“D’you have something that requires it?” she snarled. “I’d be happy to oblige.”
Mortimer just laughed and took his plate back to the table to sit and finish eating while he watched her. Damon hadn’t made a single sound during that stitching. If he’d winced at all, she hadn’t looked at his face to see it.
“Wait until morning to rebandage it,” she said without looking to see if Damon was getting out of bed.
He probably wouldn’t. He might even have passed out, for all she knew. But the door wasn’t locked yet. And she finally noticed the pile of bedding that had been dropped just inside it, so it appeared the first mate was really staying. But with Damon still in bed and Mortimer seated, she could probably get out of there and back into the water, but she wasn’t going to. It was too late for that. The ship was far enough from England that she could never make it back.
She picked up one of the two remaining plates and sat down across from Mortimer, then ignored him. He was more likely there to protect Damon while he was in a weakened state, though the captain bloody well ought to seem weakened if he actually was.
And then Damon was standing next to her, picking up the third plate. He started to take it to his desk as he did last night at her insistence, so she said grudgingly, “You can eat here—on the other end of the table. I don’t want to crane my neck if we’re going to talk.”
