More tears fell from the boy, but he merely nodded in acquiescence.
“Carlisle, Turner, you shall each receive the maximum lash count of twelve strokes for each offense.” From the corner of his eye, he caught the way Cassia briefly closed her eyes, and he steeled himself, forcing himself to focus on the trial before him. “Do you have anything to say against your sentence?”
Oliver shook his head. “No, C-captain.” His voice emerged threadbare.
Carlisle and Turner, on the other hand, stared mutinously out, maintaining their silence.
Nathaniel looked to his quartermaster.
Hayes stepped forward and waited for his command.
Nathaniel nodded.
The quartermaster let the cat-o’-nine-tails fly. The whip hissed and then landed, the sickening sound of it as it slashed through Carlisle’s flesh splitting the quiet.
Carlisle’s entire body jerked; the ropes strained under that shifting, but otherwise, there was silence. He released not so much as a moan or whimper or cry.
Hayes paused after each lash, to run his fingers through the cat-o’-nine-tails to wipe the blood and sweat. Through each blow that left the already scarred flesh tattered like a slab of massacred meat on the butcher’s table, Nathaniel remained stoic, stony-faced.
When Hayes concluded the twelve lashes, he called over Albion. A fresh whip in hand, his navigator waited for the command. At Nathaniel’s nod, the lieutenant launched into the next set of lashes. Carlisle’s legs gave out, and this time, with each strike landed by the navigator, the sailor groaned.
And then he was done.
Nathaniel moved next to Turner, and when he’d concluded, he looked to Oliver.
Oliver, who was four stones lighter and more than a foot shorter than the sailor who’d led him on this path. And despite his role this day, Nathaniel’s stomach churned. For this was no new member of his crew. This was his former cabin boy.
Hayes gave a slight nod, one indicating he’d see to the horrific task, that he knew the struggle Nathaniel faced.
It would be the coward’s way to let another member of his crew dole out the boy’s punishment—no matter how deserved it was.
Taking in a slow breath, Nathaniel kept his features even, and forced himself to administer each lash of Oliver’s punishment. Through it, he forced himself to not look at Cassia. Knowing he couldn’t face her in this moment.
The boy cried out, and Nathaniel’s chest seized at the suffering he was inflicting. Knowing he had to do this did not make it easier.
She remained silent. And yet, it was that silence from an always garrulous Cassia McQuoid which was somehow all the worse.
Don’t look at her.
Don’t look at her . . .
Think of her elation at seeing you, just moments before Carlisle shoved her, mouth gagged, off the side of the main deck, and into the sea.
Lash.
Imagine if there’d been a swarm of sharks there, hungry, and eager to feed on her delicate flesh.
He let the whip fly once more.
When it was done, silence reigned amongst the crew.
At last, he let himself look at her. Cassia stood there, wan and quiet, and then without a word, she left.
Chapter 16
Sketching always helped.
As did painting. Painting helped, too.
Whenever Cassia had been upset over the years, empty pages of sketch pads had been the source of comfort that had pulled her from her doldrums.
Except, those had been hurts over quarrels she couldn’t even now remember with her siblings.
This?
That which haunted her today would haunt her forever.
The large, brawny sailor with his suntanned, already whip-scarred back, bearing fresh marks left by his flogging.
Because of her.
It had been because of her.
Seated on Nathan’s bed, Cassia paused midstroke and stared unblinkingly, blankly, down at the rendering she’d made of Carlisle.
Even in her sketch, she’d managed to capture the volatile rage from his heavy, squared features and his eyes. Hatred had brimmed within.
Because he did not like her. Nay, that wasn’t quite right. He hated her. Hated her enough that he’d attempted to kill her, and had it not been for Nathan, Cassia likely would have found herself on the losing end of a crew angry with her for her sex.
It was a reminder of the grave mistake she’d made.
All of it.
Because Carlisle and Turner wouldn’t have gotten into the trouble they had, and Nathan wouldn’t have had to inflict those lashes on Oliver . . . if it weren’t for her.
And she didn’t know how to face him or his crew after this. They’d already hated her. Now they had greater reason to do so. Nor could she blame them. Today, a boy had suffered at Nathan’s hand for those mistakes.
Footfalls sounded in the hall, and unlike before, she now detected the difference between Nathan’s tread and that of his strong, powerful, but slightly more fleet-footed quartermaster.
There came the murmur of words between Nathan and Shorty, and as he pressed the handle to let himself in, Cassia hastily dropped her gaze to her pages.
She felt his eyes land on her the moment he let himself inside, and as was his laconic way, he closed the panel behind them, locked it, and moved deeper into the room without saying anything.
Not a single word.
Why should he wish to speak with you? Why, after all the problems you’ve brought him?
And what did it say about her selfishness that even with that, even knowing she was not only unwanted by them but also a burden, she wished to be here anyway?
With him.
Tears smarted, and she blinked them back.
From the corner of her eye, she caught him moving methodically about his cabin.
Then he stopped before her. “You’re awake.”
His was a statement, and yet, Cassia nodded anyway.
The mattress dipped as he settled onto the side. “Is your stomach—”
“My stomach is fine,” she interrupted, touched that he should ask, that even with what she’d done, he’d ask after her. “I hardly feel the roll of the ship anymore.”
“That might be because the ship isn’t rolling anymore,” he said playfully, and it was the first in all the time she’d known him there’d been not a hard, satirical edge, but a gentle teasing instead.
Strangely, that only made her want to cry all the more.
“No,” she murmured. “The ship isn’t doing anything anymore.”
That was right. The winds had ceased, and the ship stopped, as they still waited for the winds to pick up so they might resume their journey once more. It was also the reason for Carlisle and Turner’s intent to drown her. Her fingers curled reflexively around the charcoal in her hand, so tightly she nearly snapped the piece.
So tightly, she would have.
But Nathan brought his hand up, covering her smaller, charcoal-stained one with his larger, callused palm.
“May I?”
It was a moment before she registered just what he was asking.
Cassia looked from her sketch pad to Nathan, and then handed it over.
He accepted the book in his larger, sure hands. Long fingers that had been forced to violence because of her . . .
As he silently flipped through the pages, beginning with those Scottish landscapes she’d captured and continuing on to more recent times—her time aboard his ship—she stared, riveted by his hands, unable to look away.