More than an hour passed. At last, unable to bear the tension, convinced that things were so bad already that she couldn’t make them worse, Merry took up the tin biscuit plate and began to bang it against the door. Someone above must have been able to hear her, but she was ignored. She could imagine them listening, saying, “Let the wench bang. It’ll keep her out of trouble. Soon enough she’ll tire of it.”
And that was true, and she had tired soon, but she kept at it, a stubborn staccato rhythm irregularly interrupted while she rested her hands. This time her will would outlast theirs. To be a pest is only tiring, but to be pestered brings the monkey up in anyone. Merry hammered until she heard Sails yell to her through the door.
“Merry! Merry, lass! Will ye stop that now?”
“I will if you’ll open the door!”
“Lass, I canna’. I haven’t the key.” The reproach in the old sailmaker’s voice was a gentle one. “Why are ye wearying yerself with that vexing ratcheting?”
“Where’s Raven? What are they doing with him? Why is there a trial? What kind of a trial?”
“Och, don’t fret on it so. There’s naught ye can be doing. The lad’s got himself into a mite of a fratch, and they’re up above deciding what’s to be done wi’ him, so that he’ll berememberin’ on the next occasion that he ought to be mindin’ his elders.”
“What kind of a—a fratch? Do you mean that he’s to be punished because last night he tried to help me? No! I won’t have it! Sails, do you hear me? I demand to see Morgan! Tell them to open this door!”
“Lass, no… Ye must be seein’ sense now…”
But she could hardly hear the last words because she had the plate up and was slamming it against the door again and again. She wouldn’t stop, nor would she listen to him as he went on trying in a kindly way to convince her that she must discontinue this foolishness.
When her situation changed, it changed quickly. She had barely time to assimilate the swift footsteps on the stair, the rapped-out order, the key turning in the lock. All she had was the broken part of a second to leap backward to keep from getting the thrust-open door in her face.
“My love, did you summon me?”
Devon stood on the threshold, the smile on him so sweet and barbed that he might have breathed attar of roses and brimstone. Hips down, he was encased in denim trousers that revealed more of his lean musculature than Merry knew was good for her to see. Hips up, he was bare, discounting an open leather vest, which Merry was trying hard not to do. They were pirate’s clothes. He was a British spy in pirate’s clothing, a wolf in wolf’s clothing, and yet somehow his appearance was as neat and decorative as an enameled thimble.
Merry was all in favor of being belligerent toward him, even though she’d known it would be a little difficult to put that brave policy into practice. Face-to-face with hima little difficultwas turning intonext to impossible. Resisting an impulse to retreat behind the table, Merry said, “Certainly not. I want to talk to Rand Morgan.”
“Do you? I’m sorry to disappoint you—his arrival isn’t imminent. Tell me, did you sleep well last night, dear?”
“No,” she said, paling another shade. “But I’ll bet you’ve been up for hours, sharpening your fangs. What do you want first, an arm or a leg? Or are you going to go right for the throat?”
“Are we a willing victim, then, this morning?”
Her sigh was quick and frightened. “You know I’m not good at waiting, Devon. Do and have done.”
“Bare your throat then, my love,” he said. “I’ve come to invite you to see Raven flogged.”
She had been expecting an attack, but nothing as indirect or as cruel as this. Her first thought was not to believe him, and she said jerkily, “Your sense of humor is a little wanting today.”
“I agree. I suggest you keep that in mind. Last night when Tom Valentine ordered Raven not to jump into the sea after you, Raven pulled a knife on him.”
Belief came slowly to Merry. She shook her head in abstract denial. “Last night he was injured. Surely after that they would not…”
“Yes, they would. Particularly since Raven announced chattily at his trial that he stands behind his actions last night and he’d do the same again if the need arose. If the child weren’t so popular, he’d be dead. Come on deck with me. You can tell your grandchildren that once you saw a boy whipped on a pirate ship.”
She recoiled from him, pride forgotten, hardly aware of her body’s motion. “Devon, don’t let them do it! Don’t!”
“Merry… Little Windflower—” His voice was soft and textured. “You know so much. You must know that I don’t have a vote here. Why else would you have stolen my letters?”
She would remember in her nightmares his expression in the boat when the letter bundle parted company with hershirt. She had taken those letters without having any idea what they contained. Now she never wanted to know. She heard herself say, “How dare you judge me for that? Or—Of course. You hire gutter trash to do your stealing for you. Everything I’ve learned about vice has been from you.”
Quietly he said, “Merry, I offered you friendship.”
Sick. She was going to be sick. “You offered me captivity.”
“Which I promised to end.”
“If,” she said, “I met your demands.”
