“Dreaming of tupping your pretty little betrothed?”
He didn’t even know what Elizabeth looked like. She was nothing more than a notion, a vague idea of full skirts and flowery perfume, of a lady. Not that it mattered—no matter how fair her face, it wouldn’t change his unnatural inclinations. Squeezing his sticky hand, he shuddered, shame pooling in his belly.
So many times, he’d wanted to ask Mr. Chisholm what made some men abominations, but had never dared. Instinct had told him he’d never be able to ask without giving himself away.
Although Mr. Chisholm had never shown any indication, sometimes Nathaniel had wondered if he suspected the truth. But suspecting and knowing were two quite different things.
Why had he been born thus? Was he being punished for killing his mother so he could live? For he had killed her, as much as the pirate accused Nathaniel’s father.
It had been Nathaniel who’d torn her open and stolen her last breath. He’d grown into half a man, his brain faulty. Unable to read, his desires unnatural.
Wrong.
Nathaniel realized Hawk’s quill had gone quiet. In the silence he dared a peek, watching as Hawk blew on his freshly inked log so it wouldn’t smear. Did the pirate have a wife somewhere? A mistress? Or perhaps he simply visited the whorehouses Nathaniel was told sprouted like weeds in the West Indies.
“I’ll make you like it.”
He couldn’t banish the words from his head, and he mulled over the implications again. Could it really be that the pirate king shared Nathaniel’s inclinations?
Of course men at sea found release where they must, at least according to Nathaniel’s cousins, who allegedly had it on good authority. They’d all shuddered at the thought of it, while Nathaniel had bit his tongue so hard he drew blood in an effort not to demand more details.
Hawk would probably only take pleasure in tormenting Nathaniel; controlling him—punishing him. Nathaniel had never to his knowledge met another man who truly shared his sin, who would choose a man over a woman rather than simply indulging in unnatural couplings due to circumstance. Another who craved not only a man’s touch, but kisses and smiles as well, companionship such as a wife would bring.
Not that it was the kind of thing spoken about at dinners and garden parties.
Apparently reading over his words, Hawk absently rolled up the flowing sleeves on his black shirt, cuffing them at the elbow. His tanned skin was scattered with dark hair, forearms thick with ropy muscles.
Yet without the flaring black coat, Nathaniel noticed Hawk wasn’t quite as huge as he’d first thought. Still a good head taller than him, but not quite the giant he’d seemed.
Another scar slashed across the back of Hawk’s right hand, which rested by the logbook, his left dipping the delicate quill into the pot of ink with precision. Writing with one’s left hand was reputedly the mark of the devil, so Nathaniel supposed he shouldn’t be surprised.
It was madness to think he was really there. On a pirate ship. That he wouldn’t wake up swaying in the awful hammock, pretending to still sleep while Susanna used the pot. Spending another long, boring day on the merchant ship, where he couldn’t run or swim or climb.
“Eat.” Hawk didn’t look at him, eyes still on the page.
“I’m—” Nathaniel stopped the lie. He was hungry. There was no sense in denying it or weakening himself by refusing his rations. He ate a spoonful of sloppy fish stew as bells tolled, choking down too-soft potatoes and then biting painfully into a thin, rock-hard biscuit as Hawk left the cabin, turning the key in his wake.
Nathaniel thought of Primrose Isle, his father and a proper young lady named Elizabeth, a new life waiting on a new colony. A new life that would ensnare him even more thoroughly than he already was. Then he laughed out loud as he thought that being a monster’s captive on a pirate ship and ending his life here was perhaps preferable.
Madness indeed.
Chapter Six
“Will I be permitted to cleanse myself at any point in the next month?”
Hawk didn’t look up from the chart he was examining. “Yes, let me ring for the servants. We’ll have the tub filled with perfectly heated water in no time. Scented with lavender—or would you prefer jasmine?”
Bainbridge huffed from the corner. “It’s been a week down here.” His voice adopted a hopeful lilt. “Perhaps I could take a swim if we’re dropping anchor close to shore? For a few minutes? That’s all I ask. It isn’t much.”
Hawk tutted with false sympathy. “‘Truly I was born to be an example of misfortune, and a target at which the arrows of adversary are aimed.’” He glanced at Plum, who regarded him blankly. “Surely you’ve read Don Quixote.”
“Of course!” Plum insisted, too quickly, looking away, cheeks flushing.
Odd. “While I know you believe you have suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, I assure you it could be worse. Much worse.”