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‘It’s not that! I would never…’ he stuttered and then lost his ability to choose words.

It would not have been so humiliating if he had been completely innocent.

She did fascinate him. He had never spent time with a mature woman, much less alone with one.

She invaded all his senses. The perfumes she wore lingered in his room after she had departed.

He was aware of not only her husky voice but also the susurrus of the rich fabrics she wore.

She would turn her head, and the light would dance suddenly on the sheen of her hair.

He was aware of her, and sometimes she troubled his sleep.

He was prepared to accept that as normal.

He was less prepared for Kennit’s indulgent smile.

‘It’s all right, lad. I could scarcely blame you if you did.

I would, however, think less of you if you let that come between you and doing what we both know is right.

She cannot better herself without letters, Wintrow.

You and I both know that. So do your best with her and do not be discouraged.

I shall not allow either of you to give up when we are so close to success. ’

The days of teaching her that followed had provided a unique torture.

The captain’s words had made him more aware of the woman, not less.

The ‘accidental’ brush of her hand against his as they shared a book sometimes seemed contrived.

Why did she wear such perfumes, if not to beguile him?

Did she intend her direct stares as seduction?

At some time, his awareness of her had become unmistakable attraction.

From dreading his time alone with her, he had gone to living for it.

He was sure it was not reciprocated. Well, almost sure.

It did not matter if it was; she was irrevocably Kennit’s.

All the tragically romantic ballads he had ever heard, all the tales of ill fated lovers that had once seemed so vapidly emotional now rang true in his heart.

Now, watching her face as she savoured her victory, he suddenly knew that Kennit had been right.

Any torment of temptation he had endured had been worth this.

She could read. He had never known it was in his power to give such joy to anyone.

He felt exulted by it in a way that surpassed all carnality.

He had given her a gift that somehow completed himself.

She stood, clasping the exquisite book to her bosom as if it were her child.

Her face, eyes closed, was turned toward the small porthole in his cabin.

The light touched it, making her bronzed skin golden and glinting off the tears on her cheeks and the sheen of her hair.

She reminded him of a sunflower turned towards the light.

He had seen her merry before, laughing with Kennit or jesting with the other pirates.

Now he saw her transfigured with joy. The two could not be compared.

Her bosom rose and then fell in a long sigh.

She opened her eyes and smiled at him. ‘Wintrow,’ she said quietly.

She shook her head slowly, her smile widening.

‘Kennit is so wise, is he not? I saw no value in you, at first. Then, I was jealous at how much he cared for you. I hated you, you know. And now, what I feel for you…’ She hesitated.

‘I thought only Kennit could stir my heart as you have,’ she admitted quietly.

The simple words astounded him. Sternly, he told himself that she had not said she loved him, only that he stirred her heart. His own teachers had stirred his emotions. That was all she meant by her words. Even if she meant more, he’d be a fool to let himself react to them. A fool.

‘Please,’ she said quietly. She held out a hand to him.

‘Help me choose a book. Perhaps the new one you said was poetry. Then let me practise with you. I want to read to Kennit tonight.’ She shook her head in fondness.

‘I almost cannot grasp that I can do this thing. He is so…I know you are the one who taught me. However, he made it all possible. Can you imagine how that makes me feel? What does Kennit see in me, Wintrow? How can I be worthy of such a man? I was a skinny little whore in Bettel’s house when he first saw me.

I never saw myself as more than that. How did he?

’ She cocked her head and her dark eyes peered into his soul, seeking her answer. He could not deny her.

‘You shine,’ he said quietly. ‘Even when I first saw you. Even when I knew you hated me. There is something about you, Etta. Something in you that cannot be quenched, by hardship or ill treatment. Your soul gleams like silver beneath a patina of hard use. He is right to love you. Any man would love you.’

Her eyes widened at his words. She turned aside from him, and unbelievably, a blush touched her wind-burnt cheeks. ‘I am Kennit’s,’ she reminded him. She spoke the words proudly.

‘I know,’ Wintrow said. Very softly, only to himself, he added, ‘I envy the man.’

Kennit’s day had been a long one, full of satisfactions.

Askew was the last port before they returned to Divvytown.

He and Sorcor had visited the homeports of every pirate ship he had created and manned with rescued slaves.

Some had done better than others, but in every town he had been met with acclamations.

Even bluff Sorcor had come to believe in his plan.

It showed in the rough sailor’s swagger.

His beefy face gleamed with pride as he stood at Kennit’s shoulder and listened to the tally of their takings.

Both the Marietta and Vivacia rode heavy with spoils.

The loading of this last treasure had been a pleasant challenge.

Young Rufo had operated the Fortune aggressively, taking nearly every ship they pursued, if he could trust the tales he’d been told.

There had been coin aplenty, as well as freed slaves to swell their population.

With the aid of the village’s head woman, the young pirate had kept a tally.

They had showed their record sticks to Kennit as proudly as any steward.

He had listened to the accounting of every coin they had spent for lumber or fruit trees or goats.

They had even hired themselves several artisans to come and live in Askew.

Rufo had saved for Kennit’s share the prizes that were most exotic and rare.

These treasures they ceded to Kennit with the knowledge that he would take pleasure in them.

He had sensed that, and made great display of his delight.

It had only fuelled their desire to please him more.

He had promised them another ship, the next one he took.

Well, and why not? They deserved it. Perhaps he would bring the Crosspatch here if her owners were slow to ransom her.

But even pleasure can be taxing. The type of cargo they had taken on could not be treated like crates of salt fish.

He had been most particular about how it was stowed, insisting on overseeing it himself.

The very best of their prizes, the smallest and most valuable items, he had ordered taken to his cabin.

Now as he opened the door, he almost dreaded the delightful task of arranging these new treasures so he would not be crowded.

Perhaps he would sleep first and then do it in the morning, after both ships were underway to Divvytown.

He opened the door of his cabin to a wash of golden lamplight and drifting incense.

Not again. Did the woman’s appetites know no bounds?

He expected to find her artfully arranged upon his bed.

Instead, she sat in one of two chairs she had drawn close together.

A pool of lamplight illuminated her and the open book in her lap.

She had on a nightdress, but it was demure rather than seductive.

She almost looked like somebody’s daughter.

With a glance of annoyance, he realized she had already moved his treasures.

His initial response was one of swift outrage.

How dared she touch his things! It was followed by a smaller wave of both resignation and relief.

Well, at least they were all put away. Nothing stood between him and his bed.

He limped over to the bed and sat down on the edge of it.

The leather cup around his stump was chafing abominably. It needed to be relined again.

‘I want to show you something I can do,’ she said quietly.

He gave a small sigh of exasperation. Did the woman think of nothing but her own pleasures? ‘Etta, I have had a very long day. Help me with my boot.’

Obediently she set her book aside and came to him. She tugged his boot off, then rubbed his foot gently. He closed his eyes. ‘Fetch me a nightshirt.’

She complied quickly. As swiftly as he removed his garments, she shook them out, folded them and returned them to his clothing chest. As he eased the cup and peg off the stump of his leg, he pointed out the abrasion to her. ‘Cannot you pad this thing so that it stays comfortable?’

She turned the cup, examining the lining. ‘Were you a less active man, it might be easier. I will try silk this time. Despite its softness, it is a sturdy material.’

‘Good. I’ll need it by morning.’ He hopped onto his leg, pulled the bedding open and sat down on the linens. They were cool and clean as he lay back in them. The pillow smelled of lavender. He closed his eyes.

Her soft clear voice broke into his emptying mind:

‘Our souls have loved a thousand times.

Down pathways we no longer recall, we have ventured in other lives.

I know you too well, love you too deeply, for this to be the growth of mere years.

As a river carves a course within a valley, so has your soul marked mine with its passage.

In other bodies, we have known completeness, such as never ’