by Cari Z
“I’d been hoping you might change your mind,” Nichol confessed with a little smile as they got back to the waterfront. “Go and have an adventure with me, you know. It would be more fun if you were there.”
Colm smiled back and, greatly daring, wrapped his arm around Nichol’s shoulders for a moment. “I don’t think I’m intended for a life of adventure,” he told his friend. “But I can’t wait to hear all about yours, someday. I’m sure you’ll have magnificent tales to tell.”
“I shall,” Nichol agreed, then sighed and squared his shoulders. “Well, I guess we’d better find you a job, then. Come on, I know some people we can ask to start.”
Nichol did know some of the big boat fishermen, but unfortunately none of the ones he knew were willing to do him any favors. “Oh come on!” he protested when the third boat turned them away. “Palmer, you’ve been moaning for weeks about needing better help aboard, and Colm’s perfect for the job. Why won’t you take him?”
“Don’t know him, do I?” Palmer, the boat owner, replied before spitting a bit of shell into the water. He was eating a handful of sea roaches, but unlike how Nichol and Kiara had deftly peeled them apart, Palmer tossed them directly into his mouth and spit out the inedible chunks. “Not going to let some country bumpkin I’ve never even met before onto my boat.”
“But you know me, and I’m vouching for him!” Nichol insisted.
“Your word doesn’t do me any good, lad. I only agreed to meet with you because you run with Jaime Windlove, and it pays to stay on a Windlove’s good side.” He spat a final gob of chitin into the water and brushed the back of his hand across his mouth. There were still bits of shell caught in his beard, but Colm didn’t feel like pointing it out. “Give your mate my best, eh?” Then he strode off down the street, leaving Nichol fuming and Colm convinced that he needed to try something new.
“Don’t worry about it,” Colm told Nichol, catching his sleeve when it looked like he might go after Palmer to keep arguing. “I’ve the feeling I’ll do better on a smaller boat, anyhow. I can’t really get a feel for where the fish are unless I can touch the water, after all.”
“You can really feel them?” Colm had passed on his odd ability the day before, and Nichol had accepted it without qualm, but it seemed that even he would take some convincing.
“I can, but the day’s almost gone. I’ll show you tomorrow, after we find a fisherman with a smaller boat who might need a hand.”
In the end, it was Megg who ended up finding Colm a job. When she heard about their unsuccessful day, she tutted and shook her head. “Those big boats are drivin’ the littler fishermen out of business. The less they catch, the less they can afford to pay for help. You’ve got an advantage there, Colm, since you’d be able to wait until the fish sold to get your wage if you wanted to work that way.”
“That would be fine,” Colm told her.
“You know who’s been bellyachin’ about needing a second body on his boat? Lew Gullfoot.” She motioned toward the wiry man sitting at the bar, looking grim and drinking with determination. “He’s not had any help since his own grandson joined the army last year, and his back’s been bothering him something terrible, hauling on those heavy nets. Let’s go talk to ’im.”
Lew Gullfoot reeked of alcohol and fish guts, but he was sober enough to know what Megg was getting at when she sat down next to him and explained things.
“I can’t be takin’ the time to train him,” he snapped warningly, glaring over at Colm with his pale, rheumy eyes like Colm had suggested such a thing. “No layabouts on my boat, I warn ye.”
“I can do the work,” Colm assured him. He knew the basics of rigging, and he had always been a quick study on the water.
“Used gillnets before, have ye?”
“Yes.”
“Hmph.” Lew drained another tankard, his third since Colm had been watching, and waved his hand. “Fine, I suppose we can give you a try. Tomorrow morning, at the Serpent’s Tail. That’s my boat,” he added fiercely, like someone might try to deny it. “Before dawn. Have to start early if we’re to get ahead of the schooners.”
“Where is it docked?” Colm asked.
“Where’s it docked?” Lew bristled. “It’s docked exactly where I left it, of course!”
Megg sighed. “You’re drunk, Gullfoot. Vernon,” she said to the barkeep, “no more for Lew here, he’s had enough.” Vernon knocked on the wooden counter once in acknowledgment. “I know where he’s docked. I’ll show you in the morning, Colm,” she told him.
Later, once the kitchen was closing down and the guests who were staying the night had all gone to bed, Megg held Colm back from his sleep for a moment. “Lew’s not the easiest man to work with,” she told him, her voice serious, “and he’s more often drunk than not, but he’s got a decent boat and used to be respected around here. People will buy his catch, and when they do, you’ll have your independence, love. I know it’s been on your mind,” she added, forestalling Colm’s immediate rebuttal. “Even though I’m willing to pay you to help me here if that’s what you need, it’s better you do something that speaks to your heart. Lew’s a means of gettin’ there.”
“I do appreciate everything you’ve done for me—”
“By the Four, love, if you were any more appreciative I wouldn’t be able to move beneath the weight of all those thanks,” Megg interrupted. “This is a temporary solution for you, but I know you’ll make the most of it. Once you’ve your own reputation established and some money saved, you can get your own boat and work for no one but yourself.” She winked at him. “Sounds good, eh?”
“It sounds lovely,” Colm said, and kissed Megg’s cheek. It astonished Colm how fast the practice of sharing affection felt more natural for him. He had never been this free with it in Anneslea, not even with Baylee.
“I’m glad to hear it, love. Now, off to sleep with you. We’ll get a real bed worked out soon,” she added with a frown.
“I’m really not bothered being on the floor,” he said.
“At least use Nichol’s cot. He’ll be gone half the night on his watch.”
“Perhaps,” Colm replied, but he already knew he wouldn’t. Nichol was gone now, but he’d come stumbling upstairs in the wee hours of the morning, cold and exhausted, and Colm wasn’t going to keep him from his bed after working so hard.
He did think about it, though. Sleeping on Nichol’s cot. Sharing it, actually. That night, Colm took a moment—just a moment—to lie down on Nichol’s blankets, to let his head rest against Nichol’s pillow. It smelled of the harsh brown soap they used for bathing, and of sweat and the sea, and a little bit of something that Colm could only identify as Nichol, something warm and soothing. He inhaled deeply, letting the scent fill his lungs, and felt his cock stir between his legs.
Colm hadn’t found release since the last week out on the caravan, and that had been furtive and hasty, in the darkness not far from the river where the sound of the water could cover any noise. Other people hadn’t bothered to be so discreet. The man who Colm had cut had been noisy and unpracticed with his left hand, but no less determined to get off every single night. Couples had made love under blankets or in the backs of wagons, quieter but still noticeable, and every time Colm had turned away and done his best not to listen in. He’d never felt those urges as strongly as most men his age, and the more he could ignore them, the better, he felt.
Nichol, though…something about Nichol put Colm’s body on alert. His formerly docile cock now flared to hardness at the most innocent of touches, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to advertise his attraction for all the world to see. When Colm saw Nichol, when he felt him, when he smelled him, he wanted to take him, he wanted to be taken. That of course was impossible, but right now…well, right now he could have this, with himself. Surely there was nothing wrong with it.
He loosened the knot holding his t
rousers up and pushed them and the thin, short breeches beneath down past his hips. The cool air felt like a caress against the too-hot skin of his cock, and when Colm wrapped a hand around himself, his breath caught at the solid, burning heat of it. Had it always felt like this, so urgent, so fierce? Had it ever felt like this before?
Colm stroked himself from the base up, slow and mindful of every slide of flesh against flesh. He had very little hair below, and when he looked down at himself and saw the pale wand of flesh jutting out from between his fingers, he moaned softly. What if it was someone else’s hand on him? What if it was Nichol?
Colm shut his eyes and turned his face so that the side of it rested against the pillow, and he breathed in that heady scent again. How would Nichol get him off? Quickly, the way Colm was used to, stroking hard and fast until he spent in the other man’s fist? Or slow, taking the time to run his fingers over every vein, every ridge and wrinkle and curve of flesh. Colm slowed down and touched himself lightly, just with his fingertips, and the sensation was enough to nearly set him keening. It felt so good, like he was something precious. Would he spill like this, Nichol helping him paint his own skin? Or would Nichol do something else?
Would he use his mouth?
If the fingertips were lips…facile, delicate lips that smiled so readily, and hid brilliant white teeth…if those lips trailed along the length of his cock, gentle but eager, a tongue darting out to taste… Colm licked his own fingertips and reapplied them to the head of his cock, smearing the dampness that had already collected there, spreading it along the swollen skin. Kissing lips, attached to a hungry mouth that finally opened wide and took him inside, surrounded his cock with wet heat and pressure and all of it Nichol—
“Ahh-hhh,” Colm moaned, just barely remembering to keep it quiet as he came into a scrap of sackcloth. His hips bucked up, his bare ass rubbing obscenely against Nichol’s blanket, the very spot where Nichol would lie later tonight… Gods, it felt so good to let go, so good…
Reality reasserted itself too soon for Colm’s fantasies, but as much as he would have loved to have fallen asleep right then and there, he couldn’t. The last thing he wanted was Nichol finding out that Colm had used his sleeping space to masturbate, and that meant returning to his pallet on the floor. Colm wiped his hand off, catching the last few errant drops, then folded the cloth and put it away before pulling his clothes back on. He’d wash it in the morning, and Nichol would never know.
Chapter Eight
Colm and Megg left the Cove before the morning mist had lifted. She’d packed food and drink for him, and handed it over with an admonishment not to share it with Lew Gullfoot. “He’s a grown man. He can take care of himself,” she told Colm as they walked. “Don’t let him bully you, love, and don’t let him make you do all the work. He may be getting on in years, but Lew’s still more than a decade younger than me, and I put in plenty of time in my kitchen. He’ll grouse and groan at you, but he’s really—”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine, Megg.”
“I suppose,” she fretted. “Just don’t let me catch you doing something ridiculous like falling into the water and drowning, because if you do, I will certainly never forgive you!”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Colm said with a serious face, but she saw the jest behind it and punched him lightly in the shoulder.
“Och, mocking an old woman. You’ve spent too much time with Nichol, you have.”
“I enjoy his company.”
“Make the most of it while you’ve got it, love. Nichol tends to become scarce when his mate Jaime is in town. There!” she said, pointing ahead and changing the subject from what Colm really wanted to hear about. “There’s the Serpent’s Tail. She’s not a looker,” Megg added, obviously sensing Colm’s doubt when he saw it, “I grant you that, but she’s a solid little sloop, and easy enough for two men to handle.”
Not a looker was correct. The hull of the Serpent’s Tail was so covered with barnacles, they looked almost like armor, and the sails attached to the single mast were tatty and patched. The ropes seemed solid enough, but then using a frayed rope out on the water was just asking for trouble. A bundle of nets, obviously not well cared for if their current tangled state was any indication, took up most of the bow. Lew was there, squinting at them like he was surprised they’d actually shown up. Maybe he thought he’d imagined the conversation.
“Good morn, Master Gullfoot,” Megg said pleasantly. “Ready to cast off, then?”
“Aye, ready. Been ready and waiting,” he groused. “Not very prompt, this lad of yours.”
“Oh?” Megg’s eyebrows went up. “Did I somehow miss the dawn? Has it come and gone already?”
“No…”
“Then quit your complaining, you old oaf!” she scolded him. “And take good care of my lad here, or I’ll ban you from the bar.”
“If your lad follows my orders right quick, he’ll do just fine,” Lew retorted. “Into the boat with ye, boy.”
“Be careful,” Megg murmured before she let him go. “I’ll see you later, love.”
“You certainly will,” Colm agreed. He stepped up easily into the boat, set his pack on the ground and got to work untying the knots that kept the sails furled. Megg watched for a moment, then left, vanishing into the mist.
If Colm had held out any hope that spending time with Lew would be anything like spending time with Fergus, he was proven wrong that morning. Lew communicated in grunts, only speaking to chide Colm when he did something wrong or moved too slow. They sailed slowly out beyond the bay with only the headsail raised, but once they got to open water, Colm raised the mainsail and Lew turned them so that the breeze sent them cutting forward with a swiftness that surprised Colm.
This, this was what he loved about sailing. The freedom of gliding over the water, smooth and untroubled and leaving no trace… There was nothing like it. On the loch back home, he could only head in one direction for ten minutes if the day was blustery before having to tack, or risk running aground on the far shore. Here Colm felt like they could go on forever and never run out of new seas to explore.
They sailed for about half an hour before Lew instructed Colm to lower the sails. Colm frowned. “Here? Are you sure?”
Lew sighed the sigh of a man much put-upon. “I’ve been sailing these waters for longer than you’ve been alive, boy, I know where to find the fish.”
Colm reached down and placed his hand in the water, jerking back a little when he realized it felt…warm. Oddly warm, the way the water of the loch never had. He put his hand back in and focused on the sensations, ignoring Lew’s huff about Colm being a half-wit. The rocking of the boat, the few waves brought about by the morning breeze…no fish. He frowned, wondering if his ability didn’t work here.
No, wait…there were fish, but they were deep. Far too deep for the short little gillnets that Lew had onboard. “The fish are too low,” he said, pulling his hand free of the water and shaking it off. The remaining droplets felt like tiny rays of sunshine, focused tightly on the bits of skin to which they clung.
“And how do ye figure that, boy?”
“I can tell,” Colm said, watching Lew’s face carefully as he revealed his ability. “I can feel the movement of fish in the water, and there aren’t any here that we could reach.”
“Open water’s the best place to get the big ’uns,” Lew said slowly, looking like he didn’t want to believe Colm but doubtless feeling the pinch of small catches of late.
“Not with what you have here. The nets won’t go deep enough. Let me move us somewhere more appropriate.”
Lew snorted. “More appropriate. Water’s water, boy, and the fish are fickle. They go where they please and might as well turn up here as anywhere. They have many times before.”
“That was before the bigger ships started fishing these same waters, wasn’t it?” Colm asked and felt vindicated when L
ew looked away. “The fish have learned caution. They’re deeper and harder to reach here. They may rise as the day wears on, true, but in the meantime we’ll waste time that could be spent filling our nets.”
“Opinionated young bugger, aren’t you?” Lew accused, then pulled his cap over his face. “Do what you want. Just don’t expect any help from me.”
“I would never,” Colm murmured as he went about raising the sails again. He sailed the boat carefully, alternating between tweaking the rigging and letting his hand trail through the water as he steered them closer in to shore. Lew glanced at him from under the brim of his cap every now and then, checking and trying not to let on that he was.
Eventually Colm found a bit of water with a decent population of fish—not a type he recognized, but there was much he had to learn about the sea. He pulled down the sails and tied them up, then got to work on the drift nets. The tangles weren’t so bad, although clearly it had been an age since the things had been tended to: great rents split them in places, and gobbets of flesh and scale stuck clean through the rope here and there. Half the glass floats were compromised, either completely broken or cracked and flooded, but the lower line’s lead-cored rope was still solid. Hopefully the damn thing wouldn’t sink the moment it hit the water.
Colm laid the nets out himself, having to do some tricky maneuvering of the boat to get them all placed right. “Why not just strip and swim them out?” Lew asked grumpily after a particularly tight turn that had forced him to shift himself from his repose.
“I don’t know how,” Colm replied, checking his lines. None of the nets had sunk out of sight yet, so that was good. He left his hand in the water and felt the water’s vibration as it moved past the nets, felt the fish, which had been a bit frightened by the movement, begin to reclaim their space.