Page 34 of The Sea Witch (Salt & Sorcery #1)

That left only his shirt. His gaze holding hers, he reached behind his head and tugged until he pulled the whole garment off.

“Well,” she said, her brows lifting. “A pleasant surprise.”

“I... uh... climb the rigging frequently to take readings. And practice my swordsmanship.”

“I see the proof.”

Living in a fishing village as she had, she’d seen many men without their shirts. Since becoming a pirate and taking lovers,

she’d also seen her share of naked men. Even so, she could appreciate that life at sea had left Ben lean and athletic.

A flush spread across his cheeks. “As bad as watching someone be eviscerated?”

“Slightly less bad.” She tipped her chin toward his chest. “No sign of the markings.”

“And there won’t be, unless we’re washing with seawater.”

“We can’t use our fresh stores.”

Ben poured water into the basin, before dampening the cloth. He ran it down the length of his arms, across his chest, and

along his stomach. Light from the lamp gleamed on his now wet flesh.

He’d been bold enough to chase after her in St. Gertrude, and hale enough to climb halfway up the waterfall of the Weeping

Princess. Yet his body told a story of a man who pushed himself. A thin creased line across his left bicep and a round puckered

mark on the back of his right shoulder revealed there was more to the tale of Benjamin Priestley.

The more she learned of his story, the more she wanted to discover. And, as she watched, markings appeared on his skin, lines

in unknown configurations tracing over his flesh.

His gaze shot to her.

Ah, damn. She couldn’t hide her feelings from him.

“The markings...” She cleared her throat. “On your skin. They appear to be some variety of pattern. Writing, almost.”

“If they are, I’ve never learned what they meant.” His voice had gone deeper. He worked the soap into a lather and spread it across his torso before rinsing. “Perhaps you recognize them.”

“I don’t.”

That wasn’t true. She’d seen such figures before... yet she couldn’t remember where.

He paused again, hands hovering over the fastenings of his breeches. When he glanced warily at her, she sighed loudly.

She spun her hand in the air, calling forth the webs woven by the garden spiders that gathered in the vegetable patch behind

her old cottage. Filaments made of tawny light zigzagged across her quarters, spanning the distance between her and Ben, caging

him in a narrow space.

Plucking one strand, a loud chime sounded. “You move toward me,” she said to him, “or reach for something to arm yourself,

I’ll know.”

Then she turned and faced the wall.

The sounds of his boots being removed filled the room, followed by the unmistakable noises that came from removing his breeches.

A cloth was dipped in water, and then silence.

She quickly glanced over her shoulder. He faced away from her, treating her to the sight of his naked arse, taut and flexing.

The markings covered his entire body and highlighted his long, hale form.

Alys made herself look away.

“What happened at the waterfall,” she said. “When we were thrown from the cave, that energy came from you. And then the markings

appeared.”

She heard splashing. He was likely rinsing himself. The goddess of the moon help her.

“Never before has that happened.”

“A link is likely, between the appearance of the markings, even without salt water, and that magic—”

“Not magic,” he said at once. “It’s impossible.”

“I can see the feathers on a gull perched on the topmast, and I know what I saw at the waterfall.”

“That can easily be explained.”

“Explain it to me.”

He threw the cloth into the basin, and water sloshed. “Six and twenty years I’ve lived, on land and on sea. Not once in all

that time have I shown any supernatural ability. And for good reason. I do not, and never will, wield any magic.”

“You—”

“This topic is no longer open for discussion.”

It sounded as though he dressed himself quickly.

She turned around to find him in his shirt and breeches—a disappointment. With a wave of her hand, the web disappeared.

He stalked to his hammock. “Talk all you desire, but there will be no response from me.”

Glowering, he climbed into his hammock, folded his hands across his stomach, and squeezed his eyes shut.

“By all the constellations,” she said on an exhale, “men can be the veriest children.”

He remained obstinately mute.

After using magic to douse one of the lamps, she went to her berth, then pulled off her breeches. She caught him staring at

her before he slammed his eyes shut once more.

Shaking her head, she climbed into her bed and slipped beneath the covers. Sleeping was the last thing she wanted to do at

that moment, but even with balancing, she needed rest.

A moment later, she rose from her berth and grabbed the manacles.

He didn’t speak, only held his wrists out again. She fastened the bonds around him before returning to her bed.

His breathing didn’t slow, and neither did hers. They both lay awake, late into the night.

Bare tree limbs shook overhead, rattling like bones from the chill January wind.

The sky stretched in an uninterrupted span of iron.

Columns of smoke rose from the chimneys of low stone cottages in a desperate attempt to beat back the marrow-deep cold.

Distantly came the sounds of the ocean pounding against the shore, angry and relentless.

Above that rose men’s voices, even more angry and relentless.

Terror plunged through her.

She was in Norham. Today, they would drag Ellen from the prison and hang her from a branch of the oak that stood outside.

I can still stop it .

She hiked up her skirts and ran. Her breath was frozen and harsh in her lungs as she sped as fast as she could toward the

heavy stone structure where they held Ellen.

The town whipped by her in a blur of gray and brick. She splashed through icy puddles, uncaring whether her buckled shoes

were soaked and ruined. If she pushed herself hard enough, ran fast enough, she could beat the mob and reach Ellen first.

Yet as she neared the prison, hands erupted from the ground. Men’s hands, clutching and demanding. They gripped her skirts

and her cloak, holding her back. They were legion, bursting from the ground like grasping vines. She fought against them,

yet no matter how she struggled, kicking them away, prying them off of her, there were always more and more. She would never

reach Ellen in time.

Her magic could get her there. She summoned the sleek elusiveness of a cat. Twisting, muscular and fluid, she writhed and

spun herself away from their clutches. Finally, she was free.

The ground churned beneath her as she sprinted, and then, with a final burst of speed, she reached the prison yard.

The mob gathered in a crowd around the base of the oak tree. And Ellen... Ellen was already gone. Her body swayed in the

cold wind.

Alys screamed, sinking to her knees in the mud. She was too late.

Someone gripped her shoulder, pulling her to her feet, leading her away.

“Again,” Ben said, his voice in her ear. “You failed her again.”

Alys shot up, blankets twisting around her as sweat clung to her skin. Her breath was jagged in the quiet of the cabin. Her

gaze ricocheted around her quarters, seeking comfort in familiar things. Her desk. The bottle of rum atop a table. A roll

of charts propped in the corner.

Ben’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight as he watched her. He was here, too, just as he’d been in Norham in her dream.

“Who—” he began.

“Go back to sleep.”

“But, I saw her before—”

“Quiet, or I’ll cut your tongue from your head and have it stewed.” She grabbed her dagger and held it up so that its blade

shone in the moonlight.

He pressed his lips together and lay back. Yet he didn’t close his eyes.

Neither did she. She lay in her berth until the first pink rays of dawn crept through the widows. She attempted to distract

herself, recalling past raids, and ports of call. Yet for all the exhaustive details she tried to bring to mind—counting the

number of jewels taken from a French merchantman, the haunting music played on a bamboo flute in a tavern in Maracaibo—nothing

turned her heart from the unavoidable truth.

She and Ben... they were woven together in a mystifying tapestry. Any hope that they might somehow become untangled from

each other faded with each passing day, and night.