“Is that what she did?” Hayes asked curiously.
“What she did is make a mess of my plans. I don’t intend to let her muck anything up any more than she already has.”
His quartermaster rested a hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder.
He glared at the other man. “What?”
“The woman was hung over the side of the ship.”
His gut clenched as he recalled the sight. The sailor who’d held her could have lost his grip. Wriggling as she’d been, she could have gone tumbling into the heart of the ocean. But she hadn’t. “Deal with Shorty, and the other men involved.” Shorty hadn’t known Cassia was, in fact, a woman. Neither, however, were they allowed to be reckless with the lives of any members of his crew.
Hayes nodded. “And?”
“And what?” he asked tightly.
“And the lady is going to be terrified out of her mind.”
The chatterbox in his cabin didn’t have sense to be scared of anything. “What are you suggesting? That I coddle her?” When he spoke, however, his tone emerged tetchy to his own ears. “I’m not a nursemaid, Hayes.” He’d no experience with innocent young women, what to do with them, how to treat them. He’d even less experience with dealing with those sorts in London, let alone ones who stowed away on his blasted ship.
“No. I’m merely suggesting when you deal with her, you . . . take into consideration the fact that she is young and obviously scared.”
He recalled the wan pallor of her heart-shaped visage.
Scared . . . and sick.
“Tell Shorty she is not to leave her rooms,” he said once more.
The other man bowed. “Aye, Captain.”
And as Hayes rushed off, Nathaniel shook his head.
Given the circumstances he had run into thus far with this sailing, and crew, it was decidedly an ominous sign for their mission.
Nathaniel had not, however, failed once in his days at sea, and he didn’t intend to stop now because some bored, reckless minx in London had taken it upon herself to see the world.
Chapter 8
Cassia had not been thrown into the brig, which she took comfort in.
Rather, she’d been made a prisoner in the captain’s cabin.
Which in fairness was fine.
If she were going to die, she’d prefer to do so in the comfort of his surprisingly soft mattress rather than in the cold, merciless sea.
The waves pitched, and the ship rolled, and along with it, so did her stomach.
Sick as she was, she expected the better, more comfortable place to get on with dying of seasickness was in fact the captain’s quarters, and not a jail.
Not that she’d ever visited a prison—a boating prison or a land one.
“Ship.” She exhaled that word slowly through her teeth, attempting to breathe, attempting to think of anything but the fact that her stomach was revolting once more.
Her efforts proved in vain.
Gagging, Cassia stretched her fingers toward the white porcelain chamber pot and dragged it close. Hanging her head over the side of the bed, she threw up.
Dying.
She was certainly dying.
She’d been wrong yesterday.
Death might be a preferable state to the precarious situation she’d found herself in.
Nay, not precarious.
“Precarious” suggested she’d gone and done something like danced a third set with a rake or sampled oysters that had a slight smell.
Dangerous.
What she’d done in her error was land herself in a dangerous situation, finding herself lost at sea.
Though in fairness, they weren’t lost. The captain and his angry crew knew precisely where they were going. And Captain Ellsby had been abundantly clear that he’d no intention of turning the ship around.
Which meant she was stuck. Reliant upon an unpredictable lot, at the mercy of men who—with the exception of a handful—had already proven themselves without mercy.
Unbidden, the thought slipped in, that sensation of being grabbed by Carlisle, the painful hold of his grip upon her as he’d wrenched her high in the air.
She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting desperately to ward off the memory, but her efforts proved futile as the same hopelessness and terror came rushing back.
But that was before they knew you were a woman, a voice at the back of her mind pointed out.
Now they know and . . .
Women, away at sea with a ship full of men, were invariably ravished.
A little moan of misery escaped, one that had absolutely nothing to do with the ship’s violent sway and everything to do with the dark images flitting about.
Had she truly thought those gothic tales romantic?
Well, as a lady who now found herself living out one of those fantastical stories, Cassia could say the subject of those books was anything but romantic.
Footfalls echoed outside the chambers, and her heart thudded in a sickeningly slow beat against her rib cage.
These were his rooms . . . quarters. Whatever. It was the place where he slept and bathed.
That reminder didn’t help dim that rapidly escalating dread.
The ship swayed, and gagging, she spit bile—all there was left for her stomach to give—into the captain’s chamber pot.
The door opened, and she stiffened; hunching her shoulders, she curled into herself.
It was him—Captain Ellsby.
He stood, framed in the entryway. His sharp gaze cut across the room, doused in darkness, and penetrated it . . . and her.
Broad-shouldered. Big arms. Even bigger tree-trunk thighs. There was nothing soft about the captain.
That was, with the exception of those unfashionably long, golden strands he’d gathered into a queue at the back of his thick neck. The color of spun gold and sunshine, they were the flaxen hue a lady would have traded her English soul for. They put a person in mind of the all-powerful Zeus, in full control of all the mere mortals who moved amongst him.
And as he came forward, unlike Cassia, who’d climbed into his bed and commandeered it as her own for these past few hours, lying there miserable, he moved with the ease of a gentleman who had a solid marble floor under his foot.
And it was petty, but she resented him for being in full control of everything—including his stomach, while she could only muster enough energy to spit into a chamber pot.
“I’ll have you know, you needn’t worry much longer about me being on your ship. I expect to die soon, and then you can just cast me over.”
The wood planks of the floor groaned, and then there came a slight thwack as he set something down beside her bed.
His bed.
This big oak bed with its cane-hinged sides was very much tailor-made to the captain of this ship.
The feather mattress dipped, and she closed her eyes. “If you’ve come to ravish me, like in some gothic novel, I’ll warn you now you might get spewed on.”
“I’ve decided to save my ravishment until you’re feeling better.”
Cassia opened her eyes, staring at the oak bedframe. Had she detected . . . a smile in his voice? Surely not. She was becoming delusional. Desperate for some hint of kindness. “Well, if that is the case, you may as well get on with it, as I’m never getting b-better.” As if on cue, her body complied, and she rolled quickly over.
Only, before she could push herself upright, Nathaniel had slipped a hand under her, guiding her up and then helping her hang her head over, into the pot.