Swept Away (The Swept Away Saga, Book One)

Chapter Eighteen

Father Torres turned out to be the exact opposite of what you would expect from a priest. His sense of humor was sharp, keeping me laughing every day with his stories from the church he'd lived at the past several years. He also appeared to be an excellent food critic, constantly moaning and complaining about the meals prepared in the ship's galley loud enough for anyone within twenty feet to hear. Despite his feud with the cook, the rest of the crew seemed to like him, never bothering him much, or me, for that matter. Aside from bringing an extra hammock into the room for me to sleep in, they gave us a wide berth, working efficiently together without having to worry about us. Every Sunday, the Father would give a small sermon from the helm of the ship, wrapped in a heavy brown cloak that blended with his robes. I didn't always understand what he was saying—my Spanish extended to being able to ask where the bathroom was and how to say yes and no—but it was clear that he was a very moving preacher. The sailors would call out phrases and halleluiahs when he spoke, all of them enraptured by what he said. Two of these sermons had passed before we were warned that we were coming close to pirate territory again and to stay on our guard.

Thankfully, because of this, someone saw fit to arm us both with a gun and sword. The gun, called a flintlock, only held one shot, which meant if we were going to fire it, we'd better be sure that we were going to hit what we were aiming at. The sword, a simple cutlass, was easy enough to hold. I had a feeling that using it would be a different story entirely.

In the quiet moments I had to myself, I wondered if the Adelina was in this pirate territory somewhere, Tristan ordering everyone around and moving on with his life like I'd never been a part of it. I knew it was foolish, to keep thinking of someone I would never see again, but I couldn't help it. It felt like I'd lost part of myself with him, somehow.

The night after Father Torres's second sermon, he suddenly flipped out, yelling out a stream of Spanish as he stormed from our room, waving his hands in all manner of directions. We'd just been served our dinner, so I imagined he was upset about what he was being fed again. Following him out, I waited to see what the commotion was. After a few minutes, the cook appeared on deck and began yelling back, various rude gestures being exchanged between the two of them. It was all I could do to not laugh as I wondered if Alfonso was any good at fist fighting. Finally, the cook threw his hands up in the air and stated something in the foreign language, taking his leave of the argument.

Turning back to me, Father Torres straightened his robes and beckoned to follow before heading off in the direction of the galley. Making sure my face was mostly hidden by my hat and hair, I quickly obeyed, feeling nervous to be left on my own unless I was in the safety of our room. The crew didn't seem fazed by the argument they'd just witnessed, most of them turning back to their beds and their food covered plates.

The galley was below the gun deck on this ship, next to the crew's quarters, which was basically a mass of hammocks hanging around everywhere. Unlike our room, it was open to everything around it and next to the staircase, so the smoke from the fire could rise up into the open air. A few beams that held the upper deck up rested in the galley, making it feel more like a ramada at a park than anything else. It offered a small amount of privacy, just enough that I felt I didn't have to constantly be watching my own back.

"Feeding us la basura . . ." Father Torres was mumbling to himself as he sorted through the ingredients laid out across the small, square counter space, an unhappy look on his face. The fire was in the middle of the square, a few coals and logs that were always kept closely watched when they were lit. "Look at this, señorita! All this dried fruit, ingredients to make bread! Salted meat! What does he feed us? Porridge! And not good porridge at that!" He continued to mutter phrases in his native tongue that I was pretty sure a priest wasn't supposed to be saying.