Daughter of the God-King(29)

They regarded each other. She debated whether to ask him a few pointed questions but instead said only, “Thank you.”

He didn’t move. “You should lock it, please.”

She nodded, and then closed the door, turning the key in the lock with an audible click. She turned and went back to sit on her berth for a few minutes but she did not prepare for bed; if only the cabin weren’t so cramped—she could not be comfortable. Restless, she stood and walked the few paces she was able, and then pulled a coverlet over Bing, wishing she knew what was afoot. Whilst she was thinking, she thought she heard a noise above her. She stilled and listened, but did not hear it again.

Welcoming the distraction and the excuse to abandon the cabin, Hattie carefully unlocked the door, exited, and then locked it again behind her. Listening and holding her breath, she stood in the passageway. Again, a muffled sound from above. Walking softly down the passage, she ascended the companionway stairs and peered cautiously out on the deck. The immediate area was deserted and so she emerged into the cool night air.

The scene before her was magical; the moonlight reflecting off the waves and the colors around her muted to grays and dull greens—as though she were in another world. Aside from the occasional groaning of wood rubbing against wood and the hissing of the water in the wake, it was quiet. She stepped toward the quarterdeck, in the general vicinity of the sounds she had heard, alert to discovery and prepared to give an excuse in the event she was spotted. As she rounded the mizzenmast she heard a low grunt, and stifled a gasp as she quickly crouched down and peered around the mast’s base. Before her she could make out the figures of two men, grappling in deadly earnest.





Chapter 12





The moonlight allowed for some illumination and after a startled moment, Hattie realized it was Berry, wrestling with another man she didn’t recognize. His opponent was a large man and well-muscled—a common seaman, perhaps.

It was a strange scene; the men were locked together, each straining to gain an advantage in utter silence. With a soft grunt, Berry made a quick move to wrap an arm around his opponent’s neck so as to gain leverage, although he was outweighed by several stone. The other, however, stymied this attempt and instead groped to find his own chokehold. Both men trembled and grunted with exertion, neither able to subdue the other. Hattie watched from her hiding place and debated whether to sound the alarm; her only hesitation stemmed from the fact that if Berry had wished to call for assistance he would have done so—there were no doubt others within a shout’s distance. Before she could decide how to proceed, she observed the opponent’s hand creep up to Berry’s jaw and begin to push, forcing his head slowly backward despite the other’s best efforts to resist.

Well—this won’t do, thought Hattie. Looking about her, she grasped the nearest weapon available: a spare wooden block stored near the pin rail. Hattie was small and the block was heavy, so she swung it to one side so as to gain enough momentum to lift it above her head, then leapt from behind the mast, timing her swing so as to bring the block down on the back of the opponent’s head. With a grunt, he dropped like a stone to the deck.

Inordinately pleased with herself, Hattie admired her handiwork for a moment, still holding the heavy block in the event it may be needed again while Berry bent and gasped for breath, his hands on his knees. He managed to glance up at her sideways. “I thank you.”

“Is he dead?” She wasn’t certain how she felt about this possibility.

Bending down, he put his fingers on the throat of the unconscious man. “No, but his head will ache tomorrow.” He gestured to her. “Give me your sash.”

Hattie placed the block on the deck and untied her pink ribbon sash, handing it over. Berry bent and bound the man’s hands with a few practiced movements.

“Who is he?”

“No one to concern you.”

Berry was in his shirtsleeves, his hair dark with perspiration and his shirt collar torn at the neck so that his throat was revealed to her interested gaze. As he recovered his breath, he stood upright and dabbed at his lip with the back of a hand—she could see that it was cut and bleeding. “You are hurt. Shall I fetch the captain?”

“No. You were asked to remain below, I believe.”

“I am thankful I did not,” she retorted, thinking that a small show of gratitude would not be completely out of line. “And you are mixing your accents.” It was true—he was speaking with a decided accent that was quite different from his usual French one. Hattie, who had little experience in foreign accents—with the possible exception of their Yorkshire cook—did not recognize its origin.