Read Online Mistress of the Stone by Maria Zannini - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maria Zannini
Ads: Link
drifted past her, pausing only momentarily to swallow a breath of perfumed air before moving on.
Luísa was mortified, but it was too late to do anything about it now.
Dooley passed by her next, then promptly smacked into a beam.
“Watch where yer goin’, ye mangy cur!” Black Barbosa grabbed Dooley up by the elbow then swatted him across the back of his head.
Dooley saluted. “Sorry, sir. Sorry, ma’am. Won’t happen again.”
Barbosa kicked an orphan bucket at the nearest man in a mob of seven. “Get to work, ye bilge rats, or I’ll drown ye with yer own spit.”
The men scrambled to the deck with buckets, holystone and scrub brushes, with not a peep from the lot of them.
What did Papa say? Never look weak in front of the men. Instead she looked the fool.
“Aye, well, Tomas. You’ve got things well in hand. I think I’ll go below.”
“Best, I think, ma’am.”
He tossed her a dour look that said he’d get more work out of the men if she were anywhere but here.
The winds remained good, and there was no need for her on the top deck. Even Paqua had taken to his quarters, though he did so for days after every reading. The cost of knowing the future was dear.
The sun waned as well. Perhaps it was time for another visit to the prisoner and to put her sweet-smelling powder to better use.
She marched to the hold like a soldier to war, making sure she didn’t make eye contact with any of her crew. If she so much as caught a snicker from any man, he’d pay for that smirk with thirty days of night watch.
Luísa took a sharp breath before climbing down the ladder to the hold. Someone had to check on the prisoner. He had turned a pistol on her after all. This was a dangerous criminal and not to be trusted to his own devices, even if he was in chains.
She jested only herself. All she really wanted was another look at this devil, a wicked dream to sleep on.
The hold sat abysmally dark, so she lengthened the wick in the lantern to give them more light. What good would it do to flirt with her prisoner if he couldn’t see her? She didn’t speak, pretending to inspect his shackled wrists and raking a glance across an exposed chest of hair.
Unable to find any more reason to stay, she climbed the stairs, shamelessly jutting her buttocks in the hope that he would at least make one lewd remark.
Still he said nothing and it shamed her for acting the fool. Worse yet, it made her want him more. A damp spread between her thighs and it had become suddenly hot despite the mild weather.
Luísa hurried back to her cabin. She wiped the sweat from her throat and waited until her composure returned. What was she thinking, flirting with a prisoner, and an Inglés at that? Her face flushed with heat. She was no better than a common tart.
She pulled out a little shrine of the Virgin Mary that she kept in a cupboard, then made the sign of the cross and asked the Blessed Virgin for forgiveness.
“Will I burn in hell, Madonna ?”
The statue said nothing to her and perhaps it was for the best. Luísa was sure she was way past saving. Impure thoughts besieged her regularly, and this heretic had made things worse. If Paqua or her father didn’t marry her soon, they’d have to fish her out of a Turkish brothel.
When she looked presentable again, she made her way to Paqua’s quarters and knocked softly.
“The door is open, Luísa,” a calm voice called out.
She opened it, thinking to find him at his altar of dried flowers and rice, but instead he sat with his eyes downcast, resignation on his face.
The shaman looked older than his years and it frightened her a little. She’d already lost a father; she couldn’t afford to lose Paqua too. He was her North Star, and a more faithful guide she had never known. He protected her with a ferocity bestowed only to blood kin.
Around his neck was the stiffened foot from Khourru, the dead chicken. A warding charm. Had he seen danger in the entrails? His rheumy eyes refused to
Luísa was mortified, but it was too late to do anything about it now.
Dooley passed by her next, then promptly smacked into a beam.
“Watch where yer goin’, ye mangy cur!” Black Barbosa grabbed Dooley up by the elbow then swatted him across the back of his head.
Dooley saluted. “Sorry, sir. Sorry, ma’am. Won’t happen again.”
Barbosa kicked an orphan bucket at the nearest man in a mob of seven. “Get to work, ye bilge rats, or I’ll drown ye with yer own spit.”
The men scrambled to the deck with buckets, holystone and scrub brushes, with not a peep from the lot of them.
What did Papa say? Never look weak in front of the men. Instead she looked the fool.
“Aye, well, Tomas. You’ve got things well in hand. I think I’ll go below.”
“Best, I think, ma’am.”
He tossed her a dour look that said he’d get more work out of the men if she were anywhere but here.
The winds remained good, and there was no need for her on the top deck. Even Paqua had taken to his quarters, though he did so for days after every reading. The cost of knowing the future was dear.
The sun waned as well. Perhaps it was time for another visit to the prisoner and to put her sweet-smelling powder to better use.
She marched to the hold like a soldier to war, making sure she didn’t make eye contact with any of her crew. If she so much as caught a snicker from any man, he’d pay for that smirk with thirty days of night watch.
Luísa took a sharp breath before climbing down the ladder to the hold. Someone had to check on the prisoner. He had turned a pistol on her after all. This was a dangerous criminal and not to be trusted to his own devices, even if he was in chains.
She jested only herself. All she really wanted was another look at this devil, a wicked dream to sleep on.
The hold sat abysmally dark, so she lengthened the wick in the lantern to give them more light. What good would it do to flirt with her prisoner if he couldn’t see her? She didn’t speak, pretending to inspect his shackled wrists and raking a glance across an exposed chest of hair.
Unable to find any more reason to stay, she climbed the stairs, shamelessly jutting her buttocks in the hope that he would at least make one lewd remark.
Still he said nothing and it shamed her for acting the fool. Worse yet, it made her want him more. A damp spread between her thighs and it had become suddenly hot despite the mild weather.
Luísa hurried back to her cabin. She wiped the sweat from her throat and waited until her composure returned. What was she thinking, flirting with a prisoner, and an Inglés at that? Her face flushed with heat. She was no better than a common tart.
She pulled out a little shrine of the Virgin Mary that she kept in a cupboard, then made the sign of the cross and asked the Blessed Virgin for forgiveness.
“Will I burn in hell, Madonna ?”
The statue said nothing to her and perhaps it was for the best. Luísa was sure she was way past saving. Impure thoughts besieged her regularly, and this heretic had made things worse. If Paqua or her father didn’t marry her soon, they’d have to fish her out of a Turkish brothel.
When she looked presentable again, she made her way to Paqua’s quarters and knocked softly.
“The door is open, Luísa,” a calm voice called out.
She opened it, thinking to find him at his altar of dried flowers and rice, but instead he sat with his eyes downcast, resignation on his face.
The shaman looked older than his years and it frightened her a little. She’d already lost a father; she couldn’t afford to lose Paqua too. He was her North Star, and a more faithful guide she had never known. He protected her with a ferocity bestowed only to blood kin.
Around his neck was the stiffened foot from Khourru, the dead chicken. A warding charm. Had he seen danger in the entrails? His rheumy eyes refused to
Similar Books
