Dunham

Chapter 12

Fury stormed into the cabin some time after Elliott had bid George adieu and settled into bed with a barely touched copy of Fanny Hill he had found on her bookshelf, sparse of anything not related to mathematics or astronomy. He opened the book to page twenty-seven, where it was marked by a red ribbon. The pages were stiff, the book nearly pristine, and red dye had leached from the bookmark, betraying the fact that the marker had been in that spot for some great while.

"I despise that woman," she mumbled at Elliott, then stopped short at the sight of him. "What are you doing on my side of the bed?"

He was too shocked at both question and tone to laugh. "Ah ... 'twould be easier for the captain to not have to climb over her lover in urgent situations, no?"

"I am well practiced at climbing over a lover in haste. That is my side of the bed. Move." Then Elliott cocked an eyebrow at her until she impatiently shooed her hands at him. He stirred himself only enough to shift to "his" side of the bed.

But she had turned, saying, "Rum? Wine? Brandy? Whisky?"

"I've developed a taste for that Italian wine. You have more?"

"Aye. The harbormaster in Rotterdam is particularly fond of it."

"That is your home port?"

"Aye. Come drink with me whilst I tend my log."

"I would rather you come kiss me."

She cast a pleased smile over her shoulder from where she stood in a corner of her cabin, fetching that bottle of wine. "Why, Judas, for shame. I cannot neglect my log."

"But you would neglect mine."

She laughed and thumped the bottle on the table. "You, Sir, are vile."

He grinned. "Quite. Come tend my log."

"Do you know," she said matter-of-factly, "your smile is a very dangerous weapon."

As if hers were not. "I shall wield it more often, then."

"Come," she said again, pulling a chair out from under the larboard end of her table where her charts, ledgers, and logs were arranged neatly. He arose and took the seat he had occupied for breakfast and noon meals, even as she poured herself a tankard of lemonade from yet another pitcher of the stuff.

"More?"

"Aye," she murmured, then tipped back the tankard to drink. Her mouth puckered once she had drunk at least half the cup and she shook her head like an otter, then shuddered. "I love it," she said finally after that little display. "Surely you know the value of citrus aboard a ship."

He scoffed. "Of course. Oranges. Limes. But I would not dare serve any crew an insipid punch one would find at a girl's coming-out, with not a drop of spirits. In such volume. And apparently without sugar, too."

She grinned. "But I have women aboard, and we require lemons for our-"

"Avast, Madam," Elliott commanded with his hand held up. He knew only enough about a woman's body to bring her to screaming pleasure. "I ken all I need to ken and have no wish to know more." He took a measured mouthful of wine and savored it whilst she chuckled.

He relaxed back in the chair to watch her go about a task he had performed every day for most of his career. With a look of pure concentration, she poked a finger in her box of quills, found one that met her pleasure, picked up her penknife and whittled off a shaving or two. She opened another Moorish filigreed box that held her inks and sand, opened a well and her log, dipped the pen, and began to write.