Though Billy, along with the rest of the crew, was listening as the captain apprised them of the events that had occurred ashore, his eye was on the rigging. A sloppy knot, while most often only the difference between safety and injury, could also be the difference between life and death. Whatever else was going on, it was even more important—at least as far as Billy was concerned—to pay attention to the small details.
He squinted against the morning light, meaning to climb up himself and check the knots (sooner, rather than later) when he became aware that Flint had stopped talking.
He glanced over and followed the gazes of the other men to the spot on deck where Abigail Ashe had made a timid appearance.
Even in plainer borrowed clothing and a shawl shrouding her form, she was a noticeable distraction, causing all of them to stare at her in silence.
How many of them no longer considered her valuable treasure, but a symbol of her father's betrayal, as she must be to Flint, at least, if not the rest of the men who might not fully understand what had taken place back in Charleston?
Billy drew in a half-breath and held it for a few counts. No one spoke. He shot a quick look at his captain, but the other man's face displayed its habitual self-control.
Trying to replicate a similar lack of expression, Billy swung down from the upper portion of the deck and approached Abigail with casual speed. She started to give him the beginnings of a smile. He took her elbow and turned her in the other direction, guiding her away from the others.
The sea was blue and benign and he gazed out over it, avoiding looking at her because he would see the innocence in her eyes and feel guilty for being angry. She didn't mean to cause trouble for him, he knew that. Didn't mean it wasn't happening anyway. Didn't mean she wasn't putting him in an awkward position with the captain and the rest of the crew.
He thought, not for the first time, that all he wanted to be responsible for were his duties aboard ship. The men often gave him a hard time about how he was the only one who never got involved with any of the brothel girls. Well, there was a reason for that, wasn't there? Women just represented distractions, entanglements, complications.
He liked things that were simple and made sense. The expectations of his job.
Not things like black-lashed brown eyes without a hint of cynicism—he'd looked, dammit—and the way she was hanging on to his arm right now, even after he'd let hers go.
She was a lady, no matter what her circumstances were now. He was a pirate.
He'd always be a pirate.
What the hell am I thinking any of this for?
"I know you asked me to wait until you came," Abigail said, "but I had such a headache, cooped up below."
Any irritation he might still have felt evaporated. "I didn't forget about you," he said. "The captain was explaining what happened yesterday."
"Oh." Her voice was small. "I am sorry if it was a bad time to come up."
"It's all right." He cast a look over his shoulder. Flint had moved on and several of the men were conversing about them but it didn't seem ill-natured. Billy steered Abigail further down the deck where they weren't in full view of the others.
"I would ask a question," she said, wrapping the shawl more tightly around her shoulders against the strong sea wind. "Mr..." She hesitated. "May I address you by your Christian name? William?" She blushed a little.
"Billy," he said with a smile. "It's what everyone calls me."
Abigail ducked her head.
"Was that the question?" he said, wanting to put her at ease.
"No, I—I was wondering, in fact, if you would elaborate on the conversation you had with the captain? About me...about my situation."
He recalled the previous evening:
Flint regarded him from behind the captain's desk, hand hovering near a well-filled glass of first-class liquor, and said tersely,"Mind if I ask what the fuck you're planning on doing with her, Billy?"
He shouldn't have been unprepared for that question, especially coming from a man who disliked ambiguity as much as Flint did. But he struggled with an answer. And perhaps he'd been tossing the idea around in his head, but it only came to light at that moment when he answered—with some diffidence—"I thought she might be able to stay in the late Mrs. Barlow's house..." He paused, searching the older man's face for any indication that he should not continue along such lines but Flint merely studied him for a moment.
"You think that's a good idea?"
Flint had a habit of posing such questions in a manner that left the person needing to answer unsure whether or not it was rhetorical.
Billy hesitated a couple of heartbeats longer. "I don't know if it's good," he said then, compelled to be truthful, "but I think it's the best one I have."
"Well, until you come up with a better one," Flint said, "you won't hear any opposition from me."
Though he sounded rather curt and dismissive, Billy was grateful—he'd had no alternative plan in place if the other man had refused to entertain the suggestion. He thanked the the captain, but was hailed when he would have turned away.
Flint warned,"I won't tolerate this keeping you long from your duties. Aboard ship or ashore."
He dipped his head acknowledging he understood; relieved, yet disturbed by the relative ease with which the proposal had been granted.
Abigail delicately cleared her throat, reminding him that he'd been silent too long. There was a pause while she waited for him to share his thoughts and he gazed resolutely at her hair tossing in the wind in order not to meet her eyes. Then he said, "We should find you something to eat. It's already mid-day."
They found Randall in the galley peeling potatoes for inclusion into a dubious stew and who looked askance at Billy when he inquired about the possibility of anything more palatable for the lady's consideration, even while she was urging him not to go to any trouble.
"Never complained before," Randall said to Abigail, digging out a black spot on the potato with a rather savage turn of his knife.
"And I'm not now," Billy assured him, "only Miss Ashe is not used to our kind of food, and I don't want her to get sick—"
"Now my food makes people sick?"
Abigail was looking alarmed.
"Randall, calm yourself," Billy soothed, and Abigail added, "I'm sure it's delicious..."
The old cook looked somewhat mollified, and repeated—"Delicious"—in Billy's direction.
They sat and had some of the stew, which to Billy's relief was not as bad as it looked, all the while with Randall muttering in the background about it being too late for the noon meal, and did everybody just think they could come in and help themselves whenever they liked it, lady or no lady, what kind of way was that to run a ship, and something about chickens.
Both of them valiantly ignored him and Abigail even bade Randall thanks on the way out (which Billy thought evidence of good sense on her part since it likely meant her food would remain uncontaminated for the rest of the journey. All the crew liked Randall, but they also knew the methods he had for dealing with anyone of whom he disapproved.)
After leaving the galley, they took the air on deck for as long as Billy dared, which wasn't any length of time at all because he didn't want it to be the subject of discussion among the crew, good-natured or otherwise. Abigail accepted his guidance back to the cabin without protest, only asking him if he would come again later, and he said he would.