Free Bound by Decency by Claire Ashgrove

the crew’s contentment. If Drake hadn’t reined Reggie in, and the gunners were still disgruntled, it wouldn’t take much for the powder-keg of trouble to blow.
    Cain hurried to the kitchens where Cleaver kneaded a sticky round of dough. “I need another mug of your tea, Cleaver.”
    Three, fat, stubby fingers wiped strawberry hair away from a sweat-peppered brow. “Cap’n,” Cleaver grumbled. “Knock. Else you’ll be finding rat tails in yer supper.”
    Cain couldn’t help but chuckle. “Quit your belly-aching. You aren’t holding knives.”
    He jammed his fists into his hips and huffed out a harsh breath. “It be the principle. If ev’ryone came in without anouncin’ themselves, how many fingers ye think I’d have? I lost two to that very thing. I ain’t of mind to lose more.”
    Inclining his head toward the entryway, Cain grinned. “Tack up a sign.”
    Cleaver scoffed. “Half the worthless dogs can’t read their own names.” Amusement brought the corners of his thick mustache to life. He covered his mouth with the back of his arm in attempts to hide his good humor.
    Cain expected nothing less. The cook’s bark stung far more than his bite. Large though he may be, Cleaver had difficulty squashing the weevils that feasted on his flour. While he might steam and simmer, he cooked because he couldn’t fight.
    Cain opened a cupboard and pulled down a heavy mug. “Is the water boiled?”
    “Put that away.” With effort, Cleaver hefted his weight in a tight circle, reached between the oversized kettles on the brick stove to pull out a small soup pan. Using his free hand, he picked up a matching mug. “I expected you’d come early. Ain’t met no one who recovers from seasickness with just one mug. Ye be needing to give it to her at the start of every watch, Cap’n. Else, it won’t do her no good.”
    The last thing Cain needed was to spend more time with India . He grimaced inwardly.
    Cleaver tipped the pan on edge and poured the tea into the mug. Steam rose from the curled lip of silver, carrying the pleasant aroma to Cain’s nose. Strange a concoction could smell so good yet taste like hot horse piss.
    “How would some honey do in there?”
    Cleaver paused mid-pour. “Ain’t never thought to try it. S’pose it can’t hurt none. I’d say she’d taste right sweet.”
    Mug full and honey added, Cleaver passed it across the large chopping block to Cain. “Here ye be. I’ll set the pan here.” He pointed at an empty, covered burner. “If ye ain’t gonna knock, ye can help yerself.”
    Even better. If he didn’t have to disturb Cleaver, Cain wouldn’t have to suffer conversations he was in no frame of mind to hold. Though he had slept, exhaustion still weighed down his limbs. If he hurried, he could snatch a few more hours of rest before the forenoon watch began and he would be expected on the decks.
    As Cleaver gave the lump of dough his full attention, Cain fled his company in search of Drake. When he couldn’t find his quartermaster amidst the men, he took the small set of stairs up to the tiny alcove between his cabin and the quarterdeck and hammered a closed fist on Drake’s barred door.
    “Go away, miserable louse. Dawn ain’t hardly broke,” Reggie’s youthful voice answered.
    Hand still lifted, Cain hesitated. He hadn’t realized Drake’s wardship included instilling the scamp in his private quarters. Then again, it shouldn’t surprise him. As Drake’s only living family, Reggie held Drake’s full favor. He’d protect the belligerent gunner even if Reggie deserved a flogging.
    Cain rapped again. “Open up, it’s me. I want to talk to you, Reggie.”
    “I ain’t got nothing to say to you.”
    Despite the protest, the door creaked open. Tangled blond hair framed a face that didn’t look a day over fourteen, though Cain knew Reggie was almost twenty-three. Master gunner Reggie might be, but intimidating man—never. It was no wonder the gunners resented Reggie’s