Free The Bonemender's Choice by Holly Bennett Page A

on the platform that served as bed, chair and table.
    “Breathe slow and deep,” offered Luc. “Go with the roll; don’t fight it.”
    Madeleine didn’t have much hope it would work. Before long, she thought, we’ll be adding the stink of vomit to this pit.
    The ship screeched in protest as another wave hit, the usual creak and groan of timbers giving way to an almost human shriek.
    “What was that?” yelled Matthieu. His eyes, round and wild, strained into the dim half-light. “Are we breaking up?”
    “No, be easy,” said Luc. “A big ship like this ain’t worried about a hard swell—she’s just complainin’. Even our fishing boats could handle this. It’s nasty if you’re not used to it, but there’s no danger.”
    No danger
. A funny choice of words.
    Only today, Madeleine had learned just what kind of danger she was in. A sailor she recognized had brought their food—the one with the narrow hungry face who had stared at her on the deck. So long ago that seemed, but those foxy features were hard to forget. He had a thin mustache, she saw now, that drooped over his lip, and a tattoo snaking around his wrist from thumb to forearm. He had laid out the gruel, hard biscuit and water jug with exaggerated, mocking care on their bed platform and glanced furtively down the length of the ship’s shadowed belly.
    He turned to her then, sidled up until she was pressed against the curved sidewall of the cell. His tattooed hand reached out and grasped her curls—dirty curls they were now, but as bright and tumbled as ever—fingering them slowly, luxuriously, his lips spreading into an avid leer. She tried to shrink away, but there was nowhere to go.
    “Get off her!” Luc shouted at the man—she heard Matthieu’s shrill voice as well—and both boys rushed at the pirate. Matthieugrabbed at him from behind, trying to pull him backward, but Luc came in from the side, landing a hard blow in the crook of the man’s arm that jerked it down and away from Madeleine’s face. The tattooed fist opened, releasing her, and with a roar of anger the pirate rounded on Luc and struck. Madeleine saw blood streaming down Luc’s chin, saw the pirate fling Matthieu like a ragdoll into his bunk, and didn’t even realize she was yelling for help until a hand snaked forward and clamped over her mouth.
    Luc might have suffered much worse than the split lip he now bore, Madeleine thought, if the uproar hadn’t brought a new man running. She had seen this man turn sleeping sailors out of their hammocks and allocate the stores—he was some kind of officer, if pirates had such a thing. Twice again as big as her tormentor, with great slablike hands, he plucked the man off his feet and shook him like a naughty pup. An angry harangue poured from him, with gestures to Madeleine and a knotted fist brandished to underline his point. The Fox (Madeleine put the name to him without conscious thought as she recalled all that had happened) was surly but cowed, his eyes cast down. At last the officer had all but thrown him from the cell, slammed the door and locked it from the great iron ring of keys that swung at his hip.
    The children had barely spoken after that, all three shaken by a new awareness of their helplessness. Madeleine prayed that the visit they received soon after had gone over Matthieu’s head, but the memory of it gnawed at her. She understood, now, something of their fate.
    The man had not bothered to come in but had addressed them through the iron rungs. “I am sent to you as I speak your tongue,” he said, the words accented and exotic-sounding, butplain enough. He sounds like Yolenka, thought Madeleine, and the memory of their day at the docks was a flare of pain in her heart. “You”—his golden-brown eyes, almonds in a deeply tanned face, rested on Madeleine—”will not be touched. Boss say no man to have you. Worth better price at auction if you are fresh, yes?” The handsome face broke into a hard smile.