Within A Captain's Hold. Lisa A. Olech

we taking on water?”

      “No, Capt’n. Been up to the forward hold to see if the ballast be tight. Can’t have a cask running loose in these seas. Door’s jammed. Lookin’ for a might more muscle.”

      “I’ll do. Let’s see to it, and then you can fetch your needle and sew my brow back together.”

      “Right, good deal.”

      Once in front of the door Jaxon gave it hearty shove. The entrance to the hold pushed open a few inches.

      Jaxon motioned to Cookie. “Drop that light and come here. Put your back into it. On three.”

      Cookie fit behind him while Jaxon started the count. “One, two, three.” Both men threw themselves against the stubborn door shoving it aside. Cookie retrieved the lantern and hung it on a chained hook. The weak flame swung wildly in its holder casting a dizzying sweep of shifting light across the room. Behind the door, Jaxon found a strange pile of ropes, spare canvas, hogs heads of ale, and boxes of nails. How the hell did all this get trapped against the door?

      Jaxon caught a whiff of something rotten. “What is that foul smell?”

      Cookie didn’t answer. He scurried off to check on the huge barrels filled with fresh water they used to keep the ship stable.

      Moving farther into the hold, Jaxon tripped over a heap of dark sodden wool. He pushed at the mess with his boot. Crouching, he moved aside some of the cloth and exposed a bloody leg. A deep cut opened the flesh four to five inches down the side of their calf. “Cookie, get over here.”

      Jaxon rolled the body over and pushed what he now recognized as a cloak away from the figure’s face. Shock was quickly replaced with rage. “Bloody hell and back.”

      Behind him, Cookie swore under his breath. “The devil ’imself must be dancin’ on our decks tonight. ’Tis a woman.”

      CHAPTER 2

      Jaxon stared at the soiled pile of stinking wool. “Blast. What in hell is a woman doing on my ship?” Her skin glowed near white in the sway of the light. “Is she dead?” Cookie knelt and checked her neck for a pulse. Jaxon waited, hoping. “Tell me she’s dead.”

      Cookie scratching at his ratty head cloth. “Nay, but she’s knocked out cold as a haddock, and that’s a nasty gash she’s got on her leg.”

      “She’s covered with blood and vomit.”

      Cookie bobbed his head in agreement. “’N soaked in bilge water.”

      “Good Lord, she smells like the arse end of a London sewer rat.”

      “Ye thought I smelled bad.” Cookie cackled.

      “You do smell bad.” Jaxon stood up. Now that he was out of the numbing reach of the storm’s wind, the knot over his eye throbbed. He needed a stiff belt of brandy to ease some of the pain, and he needed to get this blasted woman out of his hold.

      “That leg’s gotta be tended. How’d ye suppose she got here?”

      “I don’t bloody know. Help me carry her back to my cabin.”

      Jaxon grasped the fetid woman under each arm, and Cookie lifted from her feet. They carried her to the door. Cookie set down his end long enough to extinguish the lantern and check the passageway. The ship still rode the storm like a drunken man on a three-legged horse. Wrestling an unconscious woman between them left them both breathless by the time they reached the safety of Jaxon’s quarters.

      “Set her here on the floor.” Jaxon used his knife and began to cut her reeking garment away while Cookie flushed and bound her wound.

      How the hell had a woman gotten on his ship? Beneath, she wore rough brown wool skirts. “She’s a serving wench.” Who could have brought her aboard? Hell, half the crew tossed serving wenches every chance they got, but none of them would be stupid enough to defy the rules. Dammit, why couldn’t she be dead? They could just toss her over the rail and be done.

      Pulling the mobcap from her head, a wealth of coppery hair spilled out. “Blast my eyes.”

      Next to him, Cookie “oofed” like he’d been punched in the gut. “Saint’s blood. A woman and a ginger. She couldn’t be more bad luck to ye, Capt’n, if she had a dead albatross hangin’ ’round her neck.”

      Jaxon stood and crushed the woman’s cap in a tight fist. “No one can know we found her. I want to hear about anyone who goes anywhere near that hold.”

      “Aye, aye, Capt’n.” Cookie scrubbed at his chin. “What’ll we do with her?”

      “I don’t bloody know.” Jaxon pushed his fingers through his hair in frustration. The smell of her curled his lip. “Help me get rid of her clothes.”

      “Now, Capt’n, I may be a crusty ole bugger, but I ain’t gonna stand by and watch ye--”

      “Hold your tongue or I’ll rip it from you, myself. Do you think I’m standing here in the middle of a damn storm thinking to violate some unconscious chit? Are you daft, man? Her clothes are past saving. We’re tossing them out the window, along with the stench.” He glared at Cookie, daring him to raise a single bushy hair of his eyebrow. “We can’t leave her on the floor. I’m cutting her skirts, and then you’ll see her cleaned up and put in the bed.”

      Cookie wisely kept his mouth clamped shut.

      “I’m needed back on deck if we’re to have any luck getting by this weather. You stay with her and let me know the minute she wakes. See if she’ll tell you who the blazes she is and which crew member I’ll be hanging come mornin’.”

      “Aye.”

      Jaxon dropped to one knee to cut away the girl’s cincher and skirt. Why can’t you be dead? “What the hell is this? No wench wears satin slippers. She’s wearing a chemise. A fine milled one.” He looked into her face. Why can’t I be dead?

      Filth obscured her features.

      “Who are you?”

      In response, the woman before him moaned, rolled toward him, and vomited on his boots.

      “Bloody hell, woman.” Jaxon jumped to his feet. He spun on Cookie. “Clean this mess and find me the man responsible. He’ll polish my boots before I keelhaul the scurvy, cur-arsed son of a whore.”

      * * * *

      Back on deck sporting six new stitches across his brow, Jaxon retrieved the wheel from Quinn. Thanks to turning the ship south early on, they were heading into the leeward edge of the storm, but the squall was the least of his problems.

      What if the chit was sick with more than just seasickness? On a ship, a case of the pox could kill them all. It didn’t tally, however. The hair, the chemise? Why would a servant wear the shoes of a highborn lady? Jaxon glanced at his soiled boots and swore he’d find the bastard that brought her aboard and tie him to the business end of a lit cannon.

      One thing was certain. If the rest of the crew found out a woman lay in his cabin, his life wouldn’t be worth gull crap either. According to the Articles of Agreement, this rule remained steadfast. No women for any reason. Breaking this rule was punishable by a host of tortures, depending on the anger of the crew. A man could be keelhauled, marooned, or hung from the highest yardarm. If Jaxon were a wise man, he’d throw her over his shoulder, toss her overboard, and not give her another thought.

      Just before dawn, Jaxon handed over the helm once more. The sea calmed and the wind’s gusts moved off to the north. His muscles ached and his clothing hung heavy and cold upon his back. Hot food, a healthy dose of fine brandy, and a long stretch in the comfort of his bed would set him right. Two out of the three would have to do.

      Jaxon returned to his quarters. Cookie had done his job well and cleaned away all sign of last night’s bedlam, save one--the woman. Said woman lay ashen and still in his bed.