Free The Pirate Captain by Kerry Lynne

margins of the room and ducked around the velvet barricade, into what she thought to be an anteroom. She froze at the sight of the bunk in the thin light passing through the porthole. The Captain’s bed. His bed.
    It was a less-than-subtle hint. Cocking an ear, she heard nothing more than Blackthorne rustling about. For the moment, it seemed safe.
    She sagged against the wall. Bracing her head in her hands, she drew several shuddering breaths, striving to loosen joints that had constricted into knots. A clearer head was going to be necessary if she was going to survive this. The tightness in her chest and pressure behind her eyes were harbingers of a breakdown of epic proportions bubbling just beneath the surface. Lucid thought was becoming nigh impossible, her mind leaping from one panic-laden thought to the next. She drew down on herself even tighter. Anyone who dealt with animals knew they could sense fear and would feed on it. Now was not the time for any such display, not with Blackthorne just the other side of the curtain.
    She sat on the edge of the bunk. This was the moment of privacy and quiet she had longed for, and she strained to think. She eyed the port high on the bulkhead. It was large enough that she could slither through, but beyond waited nothing but ocean and sharks. The space was considerably larger than her cabin on the Constancy , but it was still small enough that one glance showed there were no doors or windows. No one would be coming in, but neither would she be getting out.
    Voices from the salon broke her thoughts. She rose to peek between the curtain and the wall. A worn leather book now lay open on the table before Blackthorne, quill and silver ink bottle arranged beside it. The Constancy converts stood opposite. Viewed from the side, they looked vaguely familiar, some a little more than others. Several pirates filed in and took up positions along the bulkhead, apparent witnesses to the proceedings. Pryce stood at his captain’s elbow, a hand poised over the pistol in his belt.
    Blackthorne straightened and assumed a grave demeanor. “Can any of you read?”
    There was a unified declination and humbled murmurs.
    “Very well, then. I’ll summarize: this is a pirate ship.”
    The statement was met with surprised looks and nervous tittering.
    “I know, ’tis obvious, mates.” Blackthorne’s smile was audible. “But I’m obliged to make that known. We abide by the Code of the Coast, as set forth by Morgan and Bartholomew, and our articles are as such: there will be no gaming for money’s sake, nor smoking. As a side note, I might add: spit on me decks and live to regret it. And all marlinspikes shall be eyed and spliced. If you’ve no eye, then see the armorer directly. No drinking alone below decks and no bottling your tot. No carrying an uncovered light after eight o’clock…”
    Blackthorne’s graveled voice rang clear as he recited the list. Many of the strictures were common sense, essential for the co-existence of so many men crammed on a single vessel. The newcomers listened, intently nodding.
    “…to keep their pistols and cutlass clean and fit for service. He what sees a sail first, shall have the best pistol or small arms taken from said vessel. No man shall withhold information pertinent to the safety and welfare of crew or ship. There will be equal shares in everything taken…”
    Cate sagged, the blood draining from her limbs. Blackthorne’s voice faded as she stumbled back onto the bunk.
    Took the women, the unlucky ones bein’ raped before their family’s eyes, ’til there were nothin’ left.
    Heaven help any woman taken by those slavering curs.
    The words rang all too clearly.
    She dug her nails hard into her scalp, hoping the pain might this time wake her from this nightmare.
    It didn’t.
    A quilt lay at the foot of the bunk. She snatched it up and pressed it to her face, to muffle the sobs of desperation and terror that erupted. She prided herself on not being