He looked at the door for an instant, then yanked it open and ran after James.
THE wind nearly knocked him off his feet. Rain whipped his face, stinging like a hundred pins.
James rushed toward the forecastle to the wheel, making his way across the chaotic deck. Men swarmed all over, shouting orders and contradictions at each other, yanking ropes and securing portholes. Goddamn it, the storm had hit fast.
“Lifelines, starboard and port!” the captain barked as he strode, tying back his blond hair, whipped wildly by the wind. “Fergus! How far are we from the straits?”
A man with a thick grey beard was clinging to the helm for dear life, gritting his teeth as he fought against the powerful waves. “Few miles, Captain!” he yelled. “I don’t know if I can hold it… I….”
The captain’s eyes were turned up toward the mainmast sails, which whipped wildly in the wind. Edward hissed. They had to wrap them up or the strength of the wind could snap the mast. He’d seen it happen. “Someone’s gotta wrap the sails,” he yelled, trying to make himself heard above the chaos.
“It’s too dangerous now!” someone else cried. “If the mast collapses, you’ll be lost at sea!”
“I will do it,” the captain said curtly. “Fergus! Keep us away from the straits.”
The man shook his head. “But we must get to the Atlantic….”
“There’s no way we’ll make it through,” the captain replied. “We’ll be smashed against the rocks. Keep us away!”
With that he grasped the shroud by the main mast and began to climb. Fergus clutched the helm, his face twisted in terror. “What are you doing? It’s too dangerous, Captain—”
“Keep us in open water!” was all that James yelled. He was already clawing his way up the shroud, expertly riding out the ship’s abrupt jerks and rolls. The Cassandra rocked violently to starboard, and James held on, one elbow hooked around the rope. He barely waited for the Cassandra to straighten itself before he resumed climbing.
Before Edward could think it over, he hopped on the banister and followed James up. “I’m coming with you,” he shouted, spitting saltwater. He couldn’t even tell whether or not the captain heard him. He climbed, teeth gritted. Waves washed over him, and he clung desperately to the ropes. He squinted to look up into the pouring rain. The captain climbed swift as a devil and had already reached the mast. He hauled himself astride the yard, legs tightly crossed around it, grasping handfuls of the sail.
Edward reached him and held on clumsily, leaning over the wooden beam. He gathered as much fabric as he could as sprays of water blinded him. He was utterly soaked. The boat rose and fell at every impressive wave, and he was terrified he’d be tossed off, as if from a wild horse. He held part of the heavy fabric up as James swiftly secured it with rounds of rope. They shifted then, dangerously edging along the yard to complete the work. Lightning tore across the sky, and Edward shook his head under the downpour to get his sodden hair out of his eyes. The mast creaked loudly, bending under the fury of the wind. They had to work faster.
“Almost done,” James shouted.
The wild waves made it impossible to hear anything but the roaring of the sea. That had to be the only reason they didn’t hear the sound of the wood crack, didn’t hear the warning screams from the men below. Something moved sharply in the grey downpour. Edward’s gaze snapped up—he saw the smaller yard above, just beneath the crow’s nest, slanted dangerously, nearly ripped off from the mast.
“James,” Edward shouted, trapped halfway across the yard, hands full of sail. “Watch out—”
The captain had just the time to raise his head, looking at him with wide blue eyes.
With a sharp crack, the yard broke off and swung down in a wild arc.
James was caught full in the back of the head and knocked off balance. “No!” Edward couldn’t hold back a cry as he saw the man tumble to the side and fall with the broken yard. He lurched forward, and the breath died in his throat.
James was suspended in midair several feet from the deck. Edward could see his arm, awkwardly twisted in the shroud ropes, his shoulder bent at an odd angle as it carried all his weight. He moved slowly, groggily, legs shifting, hand groping in search of a handhold.
Screams and bellows came from the crew. Someone hopped on the shroud and started climbing up, but the ropes shuddered and moved under his weight, and the captain’s arm slipped down a few terrifying inches. A chorus of shouts exploded, and the man nearly threw himself off the shroud.
“I’m coming down,” Edward yelled. The fucking rain ran down his face, streamed under his clothes. “Hold on!”
“No!” James cried back. His voice was rough with pain but firm. “Wrap the goddamn sail, or the mast will go down with both of us!”
He was right. They would both die if the mast collapsed, maybe the rest of the crew too. Edward clenched his teeth and grabbed armfuls of the sodden, too-heavy fabric. He held on in precarious balance as the boat leaned sharply to portside, nearly knocking him off the yard. Men and barrels rolled on the deck. He glanced down, blood roaring in his ears, drowning out the howling of the wind, the crashing waves. The captain still held on.
Edward yanked on the last rope. “Done!” he shouted. He stretched to reach the shroud. It swung, and the captain struggled to hold on. There was no other way. Edward climbed down as fast as possible, hands clenching the wet rope so hard it hurt under the downpour. He reached the captain within seconds and wound his legs into the rope squares, the shroud cutting into his muscles, his thighs. He took hold of the captain, gritting his teeth as he hauled him bodily up until he could reach the rope. James grasped it with his free hand, his feet nimbly finding purchase.
He tried to free his arm and couldn’t hold back a rough cry as the movement twisted his shoulder. Edward held on tight, panting, his face pressed to the captain’s hair, streaked with harsh red where the yard had hit him on the head.
“Hold on,” he warned. He slipped a knife from the captain’s belt and sliced through the rope. James’s arm fell limply to his side. He was awfully pale, his face drawn in tight lines under a mess of drenched blond hair.
“Go,” he said curtly, nodding to Edward. “I’ll follow.”
Edward obeyed. The ship rocked and reared up wildly. There was no way he’d be able to help the captain down. He was pretty sure there was no need.
He descended slowly, clutching hard at the shroud, eyes burning with saltwater. He glanced above to see James make his way meticulously down, clinging one-armed to the rope, stopping to brace himself when a particularly violent wave hit them.
Edward touched the wood of the deck, and his knees nearly gave out under him. He stepped to the side, legs unsteady, as a handful of pirates crowded to help James off the shroud. “I’m fine. I’m fine,” he said, lifting his good hand, already shoving his way past them and toward the helm.
“Fergus! How you holdin’ over there?”
Edward felt drained of all his energy. He trembled all over with the leftovers of adrenaline and fear, the sheer terror he’d felt when he’d seen James fall off the mast. He doubted he could be any more use. The pirates bustled about, less nervous now, and seemed to have everything in control. They knew their ship, knew what she could take, knew how to tame her. He was fairly positive they would survive.
Edward leaned back against the banister, keeping out of the way, and closed his eyes.
EDWARD stood barefoot, roughly towelling his hair.
He was in the captain’s cabin. He’d changed into dry clothes, breeches and shirt shamelessly stolen from the captain’s trunk. The seawater and cold seemed to have permeated his very bones, and he was just beginning to feel some semblance of warmth again. But the wild rocking of the ship had subsided, as had the howling storm outside. The worst had passed, and they were still above water. That was a success.
The door creaked open, and James stepped in, dripping a trail of water on the floor. His clothes were drenched, his hair hung
in a sodden mass of tangles. He looked cold and miserable. Behind him was Fergus, who almost bodily shoved him inside.
“Please, Captain, just get in,” he reproached. “We’ve got it from here. You gotta take care of that arm.”
Edward tightened his lips. The captain’s left arm hung limply by his side. He moved awkwardly, and it was clear he was trying to avoid jolting it or flexing those muscles.
“Just let me check the route one last time,” James attempted, but Fergus blocked the doorway with his large body, arms crossed.
“I don’t think so,” he said gruffly. “You stay here, and don’t try to come back out. I’ll send someone to help you.”
Before the captain could protest again, Edward took a step forward. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of him.”
Fergus’s gaze snapped onto him, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You,” he hissed. “Captain, do you want me to toss him in the brig? Shall we—”
“Leave him,” James replied. The last of his energy had dissipated, and he looked on the brink of exhaustion.
“But Captain, he’s a navy dog,” Fergus insisted. “You’re wounded and in no shape to defend yourself. I ain’t leaving you alone with him.”
James pressed his hand to his head and grimaced. When he retrieved it, his fingers were stained red. “He saved my life a few hours ago,” he murmured. “I trust he won’t have changed his mind in such a short time.”
Fergus tilted his head and left, closing the door behind him, mumbling in disapproval. Edward went to James’s side and placed a hand at the small of his back, guiding him toward the bed. He pushed him gently, and the captain sat down with the softest sigh.
Edward helped him take off his jacket, careful not to move the injured arm more than necessary. Still he saw the captain’s lips tighten, his face go white with pain. The shirt was sodden. There was no way James would be able to lift his arms to shrug it off.
“I’m going to cut this open,” Edward warned before he bent to retrieve one of the captain’s knives. James’s eyes followed his movements, unreadable. Edward knelt in front of the captain, between his legs. He swallowed down the strange emotions that fluttered in his stomach. The way James was looking down at him, blue eyes bottomless, without saying a word… what was he thinking? Edward burned to know yet couldn’t bring himself to speak.
Carefully, he sliced through the soaked fabric. He could see James’s skin, covered in goose bumps. Were they from the cold? Or maybe because of that silver blade, gleaming inches from his heart, wielded by someone who was supposed to be his enemy? Edward struggled to keep his hand steady. The great Captain O’Shea was at his mercy, and all he wanted to do….
Edward placed the knife on the floor and gently slipped the shirt off the captain’s shoulders.
James’s shoulder was swollen. Edward could tell it would turn a dark purple before long. He examined it as delicately as possible, pressing with his fingers to try and ascertain the condition of the bone. The captain closed his eyes, his muscles tense as he silently rode out the pain. Edward wondered if James really believed he wouldn’t notice.
“It’s not dislocated,” Edward said. “Although it was badly strained. You’ll have to go easy on it for a while. I reckon it will be completely unusable for a few days at least. Is there something I can give you for the pain?”
James grimaced. “I don’t want anything.”
Edward sighed. He knew it must hurt, even though James seemed adamant about not admitting it. “All right.” He offered him a towel, watched clumsily as James slowly patted himself dry. Edward stepped in to help him with his hair, ran his fingers through the tangled blond locks, rubbing them gently until they weren’t dripping anymore. They had made a puddle on the bed.
Edward did his best to prepare a sling for James’s arm with a blanket torn into strips. The result was awkward at best, but it would help keep the limb immobilized and maybe relieve some of the strain on the shoulder, help placate the pain.
“Thank you,” James murmured. He looked up then, a smile hovering on his lips for the first time in what seemed like ages. Edward muttered something in response and busied himself rolling up the leftover bandages.
James kicked off his boots and trousers, grimacing as the movements jarred his shoulder. He sternly refused help. Edward wasn’t sure where to look. Which made no sense, considering how he’d taken the captain in his mouth mere hours before. He bit down on his lip, his gaze briefly darting to James’s abdomen, the trail of blond hair there…. Edward shook his head. It felt as if days had passed.
“Pass me that vest, please,” James asked, pointing at a thick dressing gown lying rumpled in a corner. Edward handed it over, trying not to stare at the captain’s naked body. He could glimpse a scar running down his side. Was that a sword hit? Who had wounded him that badly, and when? Edward swallowed as a sudden urge to know everything about the captain sprang unbidden into his mind. That couldn’t possibly mean anything good.
James shrugged the vest on, simply resting it on his injured shoulder. He looked about, suddenly appearing lost, uncertain of what to do. Edward could make a pretty good guess at why. Captain O’Shea probably wasn’t a man used to doing nothing.
“Lie down,” Edward said. “That’s what you’re supposed to do now.”
“You should rest too,” James said. He blinked, his eyelids noticeably heavy. Still, he stubbornly held himself up. Edward rolled his eyes and went to sit beside him. He pushed gently until the captain was forced to lie down.
“I’ll go find a hammock somewhere,” he said. James’s fingers curled around his wrist then, their grip weak.
“Just… stay here,” he slurred. His eyes were already closed.
Edward hesitated just a moment before lying down too. He stretched beside the captain, keeping close to his body, careful not to jolt his shoulder. It felt warm and soothing and right, and several other things Edward was quite sure he wasn’t supposed to feel.
He let his eyes wander on the captain’s features, the lashes brushing his pale skin, his lips drawn in a halfhearted pout as he slept. The infamous Captain O’Shea, Edward struggled to remind himself. Sleeping peacefully by his side, looking pale and fragile and… the most precious thing Edward had ever laid eyes on. He’d been chasing this man, this terrible, fearful pirate, for so long. He’d imagined what their encounter would be like a thousand times. Nothing had prepared him for this.
He didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he busied himself pulling up the thick, rumpled covers. The boat rocked more gently now, the noise of the rain faded to a light patter on the wooden roof, the portholes. A thunder rolled lazily in the distance.
The captain murmured in his sleep, shifted. Blond strands fell onto his forehead, his eyes. Without thinking, Edward reached to brush them gently away. James’s forehead burned under his fingers. His cheeks were flushed. A fever, Edward thought.
He curled protectively around the captain’s body, one arm circling his waist, and closed his eyes. The last thought that swam through his head before he sank into the depths of sleep was that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so peaceful.
How odd.
EDWARD was woken by a loud knocking.
He blinked against the pale grey sunlight streaming in from the portholes. He was warm and comfortable, buried in thick covers. He could hear voices fluttering at the edge of his consciousness but couldn’t focus on what they were saying. He stirred. He felt exhausted; his muscles ached like hell, although he couldn’t remember why. He didn’t want to wake. If only he could remember where he was—
Awareness rushed back in a sudden onslaught. Edward jerked abruptly up, seated on the dishevelled bed.
“Gather the men. I’ll join you right away,” the captain said. He was standing at the doorway, already dressed, a jacket resting on his shoulders. Edward could glimpse Fergus’s thick grey beard as the man nodded and left, closing the door behind him.
The captain tu
rned to face Edward, the irritating smirk back on his lips. Under the jacket, he’d again tucked his arm into the makeshift sling. “It was about time you got up,” he said.
Edward wiped his hands over his face. “I thought you were supposed to rest,” he grumbled. The captain’s smile turned sour.
“There won’t be time for that,” he said. He retrieved his belt and cutlass—he couldn’t fasten it around his waist one-armed, so he just slung it across his shoulders. He rummaged on his desk and grabbed two knives. “The ship was damaged in the storm. While we won’t be sinking anytime soon, there’s no way we’ll be able to outrace the navy ship on our tail.”
If Edward hadn’t been completely awake before, he sure as hell was now. He stumbled out of bed, grasping for his boots. His mind whirled. He was supposed to be glad, he was aware of that—the navy officials would seize the pirates and rescue him, and he’d be able to resume his life and leave this entire story behind. That was supposed to be what he wanted. And yet…. “What are you going to do?”
The captain hesitated, hand on the cutlass’s hilt. His eyes were dark.
Edward shivered. Of course, things could go very differently. The pirates could give battle to the officials. It would be a massacre. He’d seen boardings before—the screams and the sour stink of gunpowder, the blood smeared on the deck, the cries of the wounded….
“I don’t know yet,” James said, low. His face told a whole different story. His jaw was set, his eyes steady. “I’ll listen to what the men have to say.”
Edward didn’t reply. He stood, uncertain, as the captain opened the door. He was one of the enemies, of course. It didn’t matter that he’d helped out during the storm, that they’d…. There was something much bigger at stake. A gaping void between them that was impossible to fill. He would be treated like a prisoner now. Maybe they’d use him as a hostage to try and negotiate. As if the Commodore would give a crap about his life.
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