* * *
He is a bastard and a boor, Kitty thought, lying on her back in the bed, her sightless gaze directed up at the ceiling. She could hear the ship creaking and groaning all around them, the stern windowpanes rattling against the brisk push of the wind, the stillness in the room lending the seafaring sounds all the more volume. As if I might have expected more from the son of Evarado Serrano Pelayo.
Now, at least, she understood why she had been taken. John Ransom had been so incapacitated by his wound from Pelayo’s gunshot that he’d been bedridden for weeks, and land-locked even longer. True, he had set sail again under orders from the Crown, but Kitty had not believed for one moment that he was fit enough to resume his duties.
Pelayo must still be recuperating, too, she thought. I guess revenge could not wait, though, so he sent his son in his stead.
Rafe murmured something in soft, incoherent Spanish from beside her in the bed. He had drunk himself into a slurring, sullen stupor that evening over dinner. Kitty had paid him no mind. She had put aside her stubborn resolve and gorged herself on a savory rice casserole with sliced sausages and meaty portions of stewed fish. Paella, Rafe had called it, the word rolling from his tongue with comfortable, melodic ease: pah-EH-yah.
They had tussled over the meal, each of them jerking at the other, jostling their bound hands back and forth as both struggled for some semblance of control. Rafe would deliberately wait―or at least it seemed so to Kitty―until she had lifted a spoonful of rice nearly to her lips, and then he would tug against the chain, spilling her bite and leaving her to glower. Each time this happened, he would mumble something by way of apology, but Kitty doubted his sincerity. After the fourth such incident, she had begun retaliating. She would listen for the rustle of fabric on his sleeve, the slight jangle of chain links as he would move to drink from his cup. She would then jerk her own arm under some false pretense, such as reaching for her tea or moving to dab at her mouth with her napkin, and smirk in smug satisfaction to hear him yelp or curse, his wine splashing against his cravat.
“Stop it, damn you,” he had said after several such spills. He had jerked against the chain, shaking her arm, sending yet another spoonful of paella raining down onto her thighs, and she had frowned.
“You stop it,” she had snapped, giving a mighty tug against the links that left his cup tumbling to the floor, his wine splattering against the rug. “And do not dare curse at me, you graceless boor. You claim to be a gentleman. Act like one.”
He had grumbled in irritable Spanish at this, a seeming habit that was beginning to aggravate Kitty immeasurably. She had smiled in wicked triumph and resumed her supper.
She did not think he had revealed what had happened to the crew. With few exceptions, such as the man she heard deliver their food to them, no one came to the quarters all day, and Rafe had offered nothing by way of summons or conversation with them that she could discern. She imagined he was mulling over someway to deal gracefully with the matter of the cuffs, or at least in such a way where his crew would not piss themselves laughing at him.
It would serve him fairly, Kitty thought. What kind of bloody pirate keeps a set of manacles with no keys?
While she had gobbled, he had contented himself to down glass after glass of a heady red wine and it had made him drowsy. He rested beside her in the bed, his breath escaping him in long, slow, heavy huffs. His hand rested limply on the coverlets between them; Kitty had pressed herself as far against the wall as she could, granting as broad a margin of space between them as possible. It occurred to her that his crew might not think anything was peculiar or amiss at all about his keeping below deck. One of them had already tried to rape her. What if they think that is what has been happening all this while? she thought. What if they think he has been down here ravishing me?
To make matters worse, Rafe had fallen asleep around the spot where she’d hidden the scalpel. If I could find it, get a hold of it, I might still be able to get him to turn the ship for England, she thought. If he will not barter with me, I’m sure his crew will when I hold a blade against his bloody neck.
Kitty moved slowly, inching across the bed toward Rafe. She scooted until her hand touched his and their shoulders brushed, until she could cant her face toward the sound of his breath and feel it lightly against her brow with each exhalation. She moved her uncuffed hand against the tangled bedclothes between and beneath them, exploring carefully, searching for the scalpel. After a few moments of futile exploration, she gave up.
Damn it, she thought. He must be lying on it.
The next morning, she awoke before Rafe, with her bladder full and nearly aching her with urgent strain. She sat up, shoving her tangled hair out of her face, and wondered how in the world she was going to handle this. “Rafe,” she said, reaching down, patting against his arm. When her soft beckon did little more than elicit a grumbling snort from him, she frowned, closing her hand against his sleeve and shaking more fervently. “Wake up.”
He snorted again and then moved beneath her. “Wh…what…?” he croaked, sucking in a hissing breath that belied a grimace as the bright morning sunshine hit his blearily opened eyes.
“I have to relieve myself,” Kitty said, drawing her shoulders back and hoisting her chin to maintain some modicum of dignity in what could well prove an unseemly situation.
She felt Rafe move beside her, sitting up. The chain between them jerked, nearly throwing her off balance. “What?” he said.
Kitty’s frown deepened, and she gave an angry tug on the chains. “I need to use the chamber pot,” she snapped. “Get out of my way and direct me to it before we are both soaked.”
“Madre de Dios,” Rafe muttered, groaning as he swung his legs around and crawled out of bed.
“I am sorry to inconvenience you,” Kitty said dryly, scooting after him.
“Here,” Rafe said, drawing her arm in tow as he momentarily stooped. When he straightened again, he pressed something between her hands; a porcelain bowl. “Relieve away.”
Kitty sat on the edge of the bed, cradling the chamber pot and blinking at the sound of his voice in irritated disbelief. “Well, I am not going to do it in front of you,” she said, astounded that he would think otherwise.
“I do not see that you have much of a choice in the matter,” he replied, giving a demonstrative tug against the chains.
She felt twin patches of bright, mortified color bloom in her cheeks. “You cannot watch,” she said, nearly sputtering. “Turn around. Do not look at me.”
He began to mutter in exasperated, sleepy Spanish, and she fumed. “Stop doing that! I do not understand a word you are saying, and you know it! It is incredibly rude!”
She heard his breath hitch, as if in speechless shock. “You…” he began, and then the chains rattled and her hand pulled away from the chamber pot as he threw his up in frustration. “Woman, you are a marvel, do you know that?” She felt him sit down heavily beside her on the bed. “Fine,” he growled. “I will turn around. I will not look at you. And I will say nothing else in Spanish.”
Kitty stood, listening as he pivoted, presenting his back to her. She reached out, patting against his shoulders just to be certain and then she moved quickly, struggling to drop her pants with one hand. They were too large for her to begin with, so it was not difficult. She squatted over the chamber pot, holding onto the side of the bed to support herself, and nearly moaned aloud in relief as she emptied her bladder in a swift, loud stream.