Swept Away (The Swept Away Saga, Book One)

Chapter Twenty-One

The cold sea air brushed over me and I shivered deeper into my blanket, my hammock swaying with the waves. All around me, everyone who wasn't on watch slept, the sounds of snores and mumbled phrases reaching my ears every now and then. Beside me, Father Torres rocked in his own bed, seemingly oblivious to the world around him. My senses jumped at every creak, my heart racing a million miles a minute as I contemplated survival here.

Alfonso had, belatedly, realized the mistake in his story when I returned below deck and was instantly assaulted by demands to show my stump of a tongue. His quick wit had him weaving another tale that gave an excuse for why I didn't like showing it, but some of the crew hadn't appeared that impressed by any of it. Somehow, I just knew that I was going to end up in a fight because of all of it and I would have no idea how to take care of myself.

The floor squeaked next to me and I held my breath, waiting to hear anything else that would prove I was only paranoid. There was a rustling sound, and suddenly a hand clapped over my mouth, another pair of hands seizing my shoulders and holding me down. The tip of a knife swam into view as I struggled, thrashing about silently.

"Show us yer tongue," a voice laughed softly, instantly hushed by another.

"Shut up! Do you want to wake everyone?" It was the man who'd threatened to cut out my voice box.

"They all want to see it, too," the other mate argued, sounding put off.

"I'm telling you, he's got his whole tongue, you dolt. They made the entire thing up."

"Why would they do that?"

My struggling was reaping no benefits and I haltingly fell still, my breath puffing through the fingers of my assailant.

His face finally came into view in the dark, a fuzzy outline of a shape behind the very clear image of his blade. "I intend to find out." The tip of the metal pressed down against my cheek, digging into my skin without drawing blood. "Tell us, Samuel. Why would you lie about having a stump for a tongue?"

Trying to pull my shoulders free without slicing my face, I struggled again, desperately wishing I were flexible enough to kick him in the back of the head. The other man laughed, a low sound that barely reached my ears.

"I'll kindly remind ye that what yer doing could mean yer life." Tristan's voice carried dangerously in the darkness, but was full of threats both men seemed to hear, the three of us freezing immediately. "There is no torture or wounding among the crew here. If ye believe Mr. Smith is lying, you may accuse him in front of the whole crew, as is accepted. If ye continue further, I'll keelhaul ye myself, Thomas Randall."

The knife remained against my skin for a moment, Thomas deciding what would be done. Finally, it was slowly pulled away, and the hands holding my shoulders lifted.

"Excuse us, O'Rourke," the man I recognized—Thomas Randall—said. "We were only curious. It's of no matter."

"Be on yer way then," Tristan ordered. "And don't let me find ye back here again."

"Aye, sir."

The two men then left as silently as they came, myself still in bed, trying to stave off the panic that had flooded me seconds earlier. Wrapping the blanket tighter around myself, I hid my face, trying to rub away the tingling spot where the knife had been.

"Come with me, Sam." His voice was so gentle I almost didn't hear it, moving toward his own quarters. Following obediently, I did my best not to bump into anyone, trailing so closely I almost stepped on him, as if I were afraid he was going to disappear.