A Captain and a Rogue. Liz Tyner
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ago.’
She took the stone from his hand, brushing her fingers against his, feeling the roughened skin, his touch jolting her as if he had some magic about him. He examined the rock she gave him, running his fingers along the straight side. One of his ringed fingers, and the one next, didn’t bend with the others. So the man and his boots were marred. She wondered if it happened in the same fray, but she didn’t want to think about death.
She looked around. ‘If I were a spirit, I would be at the shore, my toes in warm water and the sun on my face. Not rumbling around sharp-edged stones.’
‘Swimming?’ he asked, his eyes intense.
She nodded. ‘The water cleanses my mind.’ She looked off in the distance. ‘If there was another life before this one, I lived it in the sea.’
When she turned to him, he stood immobile. Immersed in something in his mind. ‘Captain?’ she asked.
He breathed in, dragging air inside himself, and then he barely smiled, tilting his head to one side. ‘My pardon. I think one of your imaginary spirits is standing too close to me.’ He put a hand to the back of his neck. ‘Breathing against my skin.’ He turned. ‘I have to get the stone and leave.’
He walked to her and took the spade from her hand and tapped the ground with the tip of the tool. ‘Where should I begin?’ He gave a testing thrust of the tool into the dirt, jammed his foot on to it and a twinge of pain flashed across his face. ‘Blasted knee,’ he mumbled.
He was just as ravaged as the men on her island, only it was covered better.
‘How did you hurt your knee?’
‘Just fell into a spar on the last voyage. It’s still healing.’ He stopped digging. ‘But I don’t want to start sounding like I should be sitting at a hearth, wearing a cap on my head and a nightshirt.’
‘I imagine you’d not mind that if you had someone sitting on your knee who you could tell stories of bravery.’
A lock of hair fell over his forehead when he looked down, but he hadn’t moved fast enough to cover the smile in his eyes. ‘I’d only tell the truth.’
‘And I’m a mermaid.’
He raised his gaze and she saw the tiniest crinkles at his eyes, but he wasn’t smiling. ‘You’re better than a sea goddess. They evaporate in the early morning light when a man wakes.’
Thessa shook away the thoughts his words conjured and pointed to an area at the centre of the clearing.
‘There. That is the first place to dig.’
He moved and began scraping the earth from the stones—the rasps quickly disturbing the straggly vegetation, but hardly marring the surface. When he finally pushed aside a bit of the earth, a breeze passed over her, the scent of mouldering dust hitting her nostrils and she tasted the dirt.
She brushed at the shawl, not wanting the fabric soiled. ‘My sister was so excited when she found the statue. She pretended to nudge us with the arm when she brought it home. And then she brought us to help her dig again, but we refused to help for long. A person cannot eat rocks.’
She gave a small shake of her head and clenched her fists at her side. ‘I did not yet ask. Did Melina find our father?’
He nodded. He again took the shovel and ground it against the earth.
‘Is he dead?’ she asked. That would be the only reason she could forgive him for not returning.
‘No.’
‘Married?’
The captain watched the ground. ‘He has a wife.’
Thessa’s teeth clamped together. She had suspected as much. The only true fight she’d ever seen her parents have was when her father had suggested a man must have a woman to be inspired to paint. And they all knew he painted wherever he went.
‘What did my sister think of the woman?’
He moved earth as he talked—and used the tip of the shovel to pry loose other stones. ‘My brother told me Melina has nice thoughts of her. I am not certain when Melina met her, but it was before the ship was ready to sail back to Melos. I was to make the trip to return your sister to Melos earlier, but I delayed it after she decided to wed.’
‘She chose...’ her words were choked with disbelief ‘...marriage to your brother when she didn’t have to wed?’ Traitor. Melina was a traitor.
How many times had they sat in the night and said how mistaken their mother had been to marry a foreign man? If Melina was to do such a foolish thing as marry, why had she not stayed on Melos with them and simply married Stephanos? At least the sisters would be together then, and only one would have had to be trapped.
Thessa turned away from the man, not wanting him to be able to read her thoughts. She would have to go through with the marriage to Stephanos. She’d at least be able to provide for her younger sister and Bellona wouldn’t have to marry anyone she didn’t wish to. One of them would be saved.
‘I cannot believe she married willingly,’ Thessa said.
His hands paused. He looked at her. ‘My brother has the title. He’s not poverty-stricken. His house is near as big as this whole island. And woe to anyone who might stand in the way of a breeze of air that would cool Melina if the day is warm.’ He lowered his voice, speaking more to himself than her. ‘He is whipped by her skirts.’
‘I don’t understand what you mean. Men are not...like that.’
‘No. Well, most aren’t. But he’s always had a weakness of sorts. I’ve never understood it.’ He shrugged, but then grinned at her. ‘Sometimes, it is humorous to watch, though.’
‘And she is fond of him?’
‘Doesn’t matter much if she is, or isn’t. He’s at her feet.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘I cannot think that is true.’
‘If you say so.’ He lowered his chin. ‘And you? Are you fond of this Stephanos?’
‘I don’t have to be. He is of my home. He is a sturdy Greek. He will have fine children. They will eat well. His mother and I speak pleasantly.’
He turned his head from her. ‘So you’re not particularly fond of this man?’
She tried not to think of what she really thought of Stephanos and hoped she never found out what he did when he was away from the island.
‘I didn’t say I am not fond of him. I will grow close to him after we are wed.’ She hoped to teach him to bathe.
‘Yes.’ His words were overly innocent. ‘That’s how I’ve heard it works.’
She gripped the shawl. Her voice rose. ‘You know nothing of this island. Of the world I live in.’
‘No.’ He stared at her. ‘In truth, I know very little of England either. My world is the sea. My home the ship. My family the crew.’
‘In England, did you meet my father?’ she asked.
‘Once. Only briefly, years ago. I looked at his art. We talked concerning a painting I thought he might create for me. I’d seen his seafaring landscapes and portraits from his travels and liked them.’
‘He did not wish to finish something for you. Did he?’
Benjamin shook his head.
She tugged the ends of her shawl into a thick knot. ‘My father only paints what he is directed to paint from within himself. Otherwise he believes it is not truly inspired work. He believes no one can see the world as he does. And it is true. He did not see our mother cry each time he left for his home—he called London his home—and when she sickened, he did not see her die. He sees only himself in his world.’
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