That’s precisely what Nathaniel needed the other man to do.
It would be a miracle if Hayes succeeded in the impossible task.
Chapter 6
Cassia had once believed there could be nothing worse than being invisible to the world.
Just a handful of days into her sea voyage, she realized how wrong she’d been.
How very wrong.
There was something a good deal worse—being the object of ridicule and mockery. It was discovering one deserved to be the object of ridicule and mockery.
As the sun set over the vast expanse of ocean as far as the eye could see, Cassia scrubbed the decks as part of her latest assignment. She could think of just one thing—the captain hated her work. It was why he’d had Little Ron give her new orders, this time to clean the deck instead of the captain’s cabin.
Nay, not only did the captain hate what she’d done, he despised it with a passion, a vitriolic loathing so great he’d rather she clean his ship and . . .
Cassia paused midscrub and stared blankly at the foamy suds upon the deck. Only, it hadn’t so much been her painting the captain had despised. Rather, he’d been disgusted at how slow she’d been to grasp just what it was he’d expected of her. Of course he’d not wanted her to paint a scene upon his walls. How naive and incompetent she’d proven herself—time and time again.
And . . . that was so much of how she was and, worse, who she was. A ball of misery and humiliation lodged in her throat. It was why her clever and sophisticated sister Myrtle had been sent away to finishing school and Cassia left behind, with only the expectation that she’d wed and become some man’s arm ornament. Because even her own parents hadn’t believed she was capable of doing or being anything more.
With her continual fumbling of what the captain of this ship demanded of her, she proved her parents had been right. That the world was, in fact, right. She was hopelessly naive and . . . silly, so much so that she didn’t have a husband and hadn’t even had so much as a suitor.
Cassia made herself resume scrubbing, applying greater pressure to her work.
Before now, people didn’t hate her.
Only, neither did people really . . . like her, either.
Not truly.
Oh, her parents absolutely loved her.
But it hadn’t been until they’d chosen to send her younger sister off to finishing school that she’d gathered . . . that she was not special. At least, not the manner of special that resulted in special friendships and relationships. Like the one her sister had always had with their mother.
Or Myrtle now had with her husband, the Duke of Aragon.
And then there was Cassia.
Cassia, who’d an entire ship of men and boys hating her in like measure.
Or, rather, in some manner of competition to see who could hate her most.
A particularly powerful swell rocked the ship.
Not for the first time since she’d been assigned to cleaning the floors of the main deck, Cassia dropped her brush, staggering to her feet. She rushed to the railing, gripped it tight, and threw up.
Again.
Clinging to the side, she stared miserably out at the violent waves battering the side of the vessel. Seawater slapped her in the face, and even as she blinked against its salty sting, she welcomed the soothing cool of it upon her clammy skin.
How much did the stomach hold? And what happened when there was nothing left inside? Because surely she was fast reaching that point.
With a miserable moan, she wiped the back of her left hand over her mouth, sank against the railing, and rested her cheek along the smooth, cool wood.
“Ye finally takin’ yerself a rest?” someone barked from behind. The man snorted. “An’ ’ere we didn’t think ye capable of it. ’Ere we didn’t think ye were capable of anything but makin’ the rest of us look bad.”
Carlisle, she thought. It was always Carlisle plaguing her.
First, it had been because she’d not known the way and made endless mistakes at her chores. Then, when she’d finally flung herself fully into her responsibilities, determined to not bring any more attention to herself, she’d ended up earning his ire for making the rest of the men look bad.
Forcing herself upright, Cassia resumed scrubbing the floor.
She’d lost track of the number of sailors she’d met, each of whom despised her in like measure and never wasted a moment to threaten or mock her, but this man was her greatest detractor of all.
The wind whipped against Cassia’s face, and she welcomed the salty air filling her nostrils and lungs, and then she made herself straighten and face the cruel sailor.
Or, in this case . . . sailors.
At some point, Carlisle had been joined by three of the impressionable deckhands. With scarves knotted around their heads, they had the look of pirates she and her siblings had played at during their younger years.
But everyone could be reasoned with. Surely they had . . . some decency to see she was ill?
“I’m not resting,” Cassia said, her voice weak from her bouts of seasickness. “I’m sick.”
Carlisle let out a sharp bark of laughter. “See that, we do.”
“And smell it, too,” Oliver added, his words met with another round of raucous amusement as his friends tossed him supportive elbows.
Oliver, who’d been so very nice . . . until the captain had relieved him of his duties cleaning his cabin and turned that responsibility over to Cassia instead.
No, there’d be no mercy from any of them. Refusing to engage, Cassia dropped to her knees and, keeping her head down, resumed cleaning the already immaculate deck.
“Greener he is than any sea I’ve ever sailed,” one of the sailors called over.
“Easy, Carlisle, or you’re going to have him casting up his biscuits again,” someone shouted in return.
And like he’d told the most hilarious of jests, the lads and Carlisle all chortled with laughter.
Cassia gripped the brush in her hand hard. Ignore them.
Just as you would Fleur or Quillon or any of your bothersome brothers and sisters. And cousins. Why, given the sheer size of the McQuoids’ wont to teasing, one would think she’d be accustomed to this.
But then, her family didn’t say outrageously wicked things. Not like this. Not naughty words, melded with cruel ones. They told silly jokes and played harmless pranks.
“Wot say ye, McQuoid? Ye going to be sick again?” Carlisle taunted Cassia.
Putting her elbow into her work, Cassia concentrated on the mindless chore.
ScrubScrubStop.
ScrubScrubStop.
And then, the louts began to collectively make gagging sounds.
Cassia stilled her back-and-forth brushstrokes, glaring down at the deck.
Do not give them the satisfaction.
Do not . . .
“A pathetic excuse for a sailor is what ’e is,” Carlisle jeered. “Afraid of the ocean as ye are, why, we’d be better tossing ye over and being done with ye once and for all.”
A shiver traipsed along her spine—terror, it licked away at her. For what this man suggested . . . She believed he’d do it, too, and that he’d enjoy ending her mightily. Bullies found their power in the weakness of others. Determined to disabuse him of the idea she was a coward to be preyed upon, Cassia tamped down her fear and, jumping to her feet, wheeled to face Carlisle and the deckhands he’d gathered around her for the express purpose of making her miserable.