Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
I was beginning to lose track of how many times in one week I could be made to feel like an utter fool. The physician currently pressing cold metal to my chest was not helping matters. He’d appeared mere minutes after Silas had left the cabin.
“Inhale,” he instructed. I was a woman of science and understood the necessity of medical care.
But I had better things to do, like finish what a madman had started and then scream at him afterward.
Was there a rule of propriety about visiting a man in his chambers after he’d had his fingers inside of you? I hadn’t the faintest idea.
“Again,” the physician murmured.
I followed his instructions without complaint and the wheeze that followed seemed to either concern or disappoint him, judging by the grimace on his face.
He straightened, packed his instruments back into his worn leather case, and regarded me over the rim of his spectacles.
“My dear, you’ve caught pneumonia. I think I got to you early enough that it shouldn't settle into something worse, provided you do as you're told for once in your life. Your shoulder was out of its socket but whoever set it did a fine job. I’ll give you an ointment for the pain.”
“You don't know me well enough to say ‘for once in my life,’ sir!” I scolded.
“I know you swam through a harbor at midnight with a fever already brewing,” he said, entirely unbothered by my tone. “That's all I need to know, Miss Godwin.”
He left a paper packet of dried herbs on the desk with instructions to steep them twice daily, charged Silas an obscene amount of coin for his trouble, and was off the ship without another word.
“Asshole,” I grumbled.
After he’d shut the door behind him, I was left alone in the wreckage of a cabin that had been a battlefield not two hours prior.
Unfortunately, that meant I was sitting on a bed that still smelled faintly of Silas with absolutely nothing to occupy my mind except thinking about every little thing that had happened in the past few hours.
Silas hadn’t slept with Amalya. He’d only said he had to provoke me, the absolute bastard, and the provocation had worked too well. Somehow, I’d ended up on his desk with his hand between my thighs. He wanted to make me jealous.
Shit, I thought. Jealous? That word had come out of nowhere. Surely I wasn’t jealous. He was a filthy pirate and I was a lady of society. A scholar, for gods sake!
And yet…
“No one’s ever touched me like this.”
I pressed both palms over my face and groaned into them.
He stopped the moment the words fell from my lips, as if I'd struck him a second time. He’d withdrawn his hand and stepped back, wearing the most horrified expression I'd ever seen on him.
I couldn't tell if it was guilt or pity or some combination of the two that had sent him retreating behind his desk, and not knowing was nearly as maddening as the ache he left behind.
An ache that, despite everything, had not entirely faded.
I sat there working myself up into a fine state of indignation about it, until a knock sounded at the door.
“Miss Godwin?” Finch called, his tone meek as if he were afraid I would throw something at him.
To be fair, I was in the mood to.
“Cap’n wonders if you’d take your meal with him.” Finch peeked around the door, but did not come in. Coward.
I sat up slowly, testing the ache in my shoulder as I went, and tried not to scream obscenities. He’d just had two fingers deep in me and now he wanted to eat dinner?
“A meal?”
“Aye.”
“With him.” I deadpanned.
“Well, aye, yes.” He nodded, furrowing his brow as if I were the simple one rather than his captain.
What did that man want from me?
I considered my options. I could refuse and risk angering him further. Or I could accept and face his unsettling company again. A flicker of rebellion, perhaps fueled by the lingering throb between my legs, settled in my gut. I had questions, and I wanted them answered.
“Tell him,” I began, my voice surprisingly steady, “that I will join him. But only if the meal is served in the main cabin, not his private quarters.”
“Aye, miss.” Finch’s footsteps retreated behind the click of the door, and I reminded myself, with as much severity as I could muster, that I was a prisoner aboard this ship and not some lovesick debutante preparing for her first ball. The reminder did nothing to quiet the pounding of my heart.
I requested a public space so that there was less likelihood of him cornering me, or so I hoped. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, wincing as the muscles protested. He'd certainly left his mark. Did part of me look forward to being in his presence again?
No, I needed to set boundaries: I’m here to find the Stella Mortis and avoid losing my head in the process. I repeated it to myself twice more for good measure, as if the repetition alone might convince the traitorous parts of my body that disagreed.
Another knock came and, this time, I opened the door myself.
“What now, Finch?”
“Cap’n has provided you with a dress, my lady.”
He handed over a thick pile of clothing and ran away again.
“Something is seriously off with that man,” I mumbled under my breath. It was like Finch was terrified that I was on board. Maybe he was. Ridiculous nonsense, of course.
I unfolded the midnight-blue fabric. The full-skirted dress was marvelous, with frills along the collar and sleeves, and a slight corset to keep my curves but not debilitate me.
It was silken to the touch, fabric that couldn’t have been any less than three silver pieces just to purchase the yardage for. I draped it over the bed and stared.
A pang of curiosity, sharp and unwelcome, shot through me.
It was too fine a garment for a prisoner, too elaborate for the simple purpose of covering my person.
Still, the prospect of confronting him in something other than the rough spun garments I'd purchased was undeniably appealing.
I ran a hand over the cool silk again, a shiver tracing its way down my spine that was entirely unrelated to the chill of the cabin.
I strode to the basin and looked into the cracked mirror above it.
My brown locks had seen better days, and the weariness in my coffee-colored eyes had certainly deepened since being on the ship.
I dipped my hands into the water and splashed it over my pale face a few times, scrubbing away the remnants of Deadveil from my skin.
Perhaps I could also scrub away the lingering sensation of his fingers, the rasp of his voice against my ear, and the way he’d thrown me up on the desk like I was his to own.
“Stop it, Corynne!” I hissed.
I shook my head hard enough to dislodge the thought entirely, or at least convince myself I had, and turned my attention to something productive.
On the floor was my discarded outfit from Deadveil.
I bent and dug my fingers into the pocket of the skirts, searching for the sea glass I bought while on land.
“Gotcha!” They were tangled together from being hastily shoved into my skirts before everything had gone sideways, but every strand was miraculously still here.
I pulled them free and held them up to the lantern, turning the cords slowly so the cobalt and turquoise caught the light and threw small, fractured colors across my palm.
I felt an absurd amount of relief that they’d survived the chaos of the night, when by any reasonable measure they ought to have been lost at the bottom of Deadveil’s bay along with whatever remained of my dignity.
I set them on the edge of the basin, carefully. Then I pulled his shirt over my head and tossed it on the bed beside the dress.
Reckless. I was being reckless by accepting this invitation. But I didn’t have a choice, right? I needed to decode his map, yes. I also wanted answers.
I slipped into the dress, laced the corset easily enough on my own, and fluffed the skirts that fell in soft layers around my legs.
The next thing to tackle was my mess of hair.
There was a comb beside the few other toiletries on the basin, and I set to work untangling the knots the wind and sea had woven.
The bristles snagged at first, then smoothed, drawing the thick strands into a semblance of order.
I found myself humming a tuneless melody, the simple act of preparation a balm to my frayed nerves.
The mirror was surprisingly clean given the circumstances, and offered a reflection that was almost unrecognizable.
I saw a stranger dressed in fine silk, her hair tamed and her face scrubbed clean.
I barely recognized myself, and I wondered if he would.
This time, when I went to him, it would be with the dignity and composure he’d denied me so far by keeping me hostage.
I only hoped that composure wouldn’t slip away as soon as I saw him.
I eyed the beads on the edge of the basin.
I shouldn’t. There was no need to look nice for dinner.
I should simply wear what the beast gave me and leave it at that.
And yet, without explanation, my fingers began untwining the beads from their cord and weaving them into strands of my hair.
I worked a cobalt strand in first, twisting them through the curl at my temple.
I’d once watched fine ladies do this with a ribbon at one of the rare society functions August had dragged me to.
This was before he’d given up on salvaging his sharp-tongued fiancee.
Once the cobalt was in, I picked up the turquoise, and then the clear pieces, weaving them in patterns amongst the deeper blues.
When I finished, I sat back and stared at the stranger in the glass for a long moment. For a woman about to dine with the man who’d nearly taken her virginity in the most savage manner she could imagine, she looked entirely too pleased with herself.