Part 2 (2/2)

”Just do what she tells you.” Shea-Ann waved her hand, but muttered under her breath. ”The girl is daft. If he's staying here, I'm finding a room in the village.”

While the guards worked, Sparrow a.s.sisted Shea-Ann. Sparrow washed the pirate's burned arms, marveling at the thickness of his biceps. She was considered a muscular woman, strong from working her farm, but his arms were easily three times her size, about as big as the blacksmith's they'd visited in Begonia last year, except Lock's limbs were much longer.

When she'd finished bandaging his arms, Shea-Ann said, ”Move him so I can see to his front. I want to hurry up and get to his back-not that there's much skin left.”

Sparrow nudged the pirate, surprised to find him still awake, but she doubted anyone could sleep with that much pain.

”Move back,” she told him, both hands clutching one of his arms. He did as she suggested, closing his eyes tightly and swallowing hard as the motion must have been excruciating. He s.h.i.+vered in spite of the warm summer day.

Sparrow noticed the slightest expression of sympathy in Shea-Ann's dark eyes. ”As soon as we find you a permanent position, I'll give you something for the pain.”

If the pirate heard her, he didn't acknowledge her words. Shea-Ann worked quickly, leaving Sparrow to apply bandages while she walked to the round wooden table in the center of the room and prepared a sleeping potion.

”Think you can get to the bed?” Sparrow asked Lock.

”Drink this first.” Shea-Ann held a mug to his lips. ”Tastes lousy, but you won't wake up until morning.”

He swallowed the pungent mixture, and after a moment's hesitation, stood and stumbled to the bed, one hand braced against Sparrow's shoulder.

d.a.m.n, he's heavy, she thought, relieved when he dropped stomach-down on the mattress.

”What a mess,” Shea-Ann said as she set to work on the pirate's back. ”You're going to need new bedclothes.”

Sparrow glanced at the blood staining her blankets and shrugged. There was nothing she could do about it now.

”Move his hair,” Shea-Ann ordered.

As gently as she could, Sparrow pulled his long hair away from his back. Blood had pasted the two-toned ma.s.s to his flesh, and he nearly jumped off the bed at the first sweep of her hand. Sparrow felt sick. She doubted she could have ever been a healer like Shea-Ann. She reached into her waist pouch and removed a carved wooden clip to pin Lock's hair on top of his head so it wouldn't slip into the raw ma.s.s of his shoulders and back. Several strands of hair clung to his forehead, and she brushed them away, thinking that if he was clean and healthy, he'd be very handsome, bush-like beard and all.

His eyes opened halfway, and she was struck again by their odd blue color.

”Hurts to breathe,” he murmured in a SothSea language, but Sparrow understood. Before her family had been stripped of power, she'd spent her days studying with many fine teachers and had mastered ten languages. The pirate's dialect was unusual, but she could communicate with him.

”What did he say?” Shea-Ann asked, her eyes fixed on her work.

”He said it hurts to breathe.”

Shea-Ann laughed humorlessly. ”I don't doubt it. Tell him that potion will work soon and he won't feel a thing.”

Sparrow translated, and even as she spoke, the pirate's eyes slipped shut and his strained breathing became regular. Sparrow's entire body relaxed, and she realized she'd been holding every muscle tense since the village square.

”I don't like how you're looking at him,” Shea-Ann said.

”What do you mean?”

”I've known you since the day you were born, Sparrow. In fact, I was there. Don't get any ideas about this slave. He might be harmless now, but he is evil. Believe me. There's not a pirate from the Archipelago who has a decent bone in his body, and this one is the worst of the lot.”

”I don't feel anything.” Sparrow nodded toward the b.l.o.o.d.y meat that was his back. ”Look at him.”

”You're remembering what you saw before they set to work on him. All those long, sinewy limbs. Those thighs. I haven't seen a b.u.t.tocks this tight since I was a girl.”

”Shea-Ann, it sounds to me like you're the one whose thoughts are straying.”

”I'm being honest. He has the look of a breeding bull if ever I saw one-at least he did. Those bounty hunters have made a wreck of him. If he doesn't die of infection, it will be a miracle, and these scars are not going to be at all attractive.”

”He has a lot of scars.” Sparrow glanced over the untouched skin of his arms and some old, white marks interspersed with the b.l.o.o.d.y ones on his ribs.

”I'm not surprised. They're all rough, those pirates. Sc.u.m. Worse than sc.u.m.”

”I think you've made your point, Shea-Ann.”

”I hope so. If he lives, I hope you know enough to fear him and never, never risk his escape.”

Sparrow glanced at the pirate's large body sprawled on her bed, remembered the expression of utter hatred in his eyes when he'd been dragged to the scaffold, and felt her stomach knot again. No, she wasn't stupid. She definitely knew enough to fear him.

Chapter Four.

Lock awoke to a streak of sunlight across his face. He attempted to move, but his back was on fire and the rest of his body ached like he'd fought a White Island yak. Across the room, the young woman from the day before sat at a round wooden table, sh.e.l.ling peas. She wore baggy trousers belted with a strip of leather and worn brown boots. A vest left her rounded arms and shoulders bare, her muscles moving sensuously in the light s.h.i.+ning in through the room's single window. Her long, light brown hair hung in a braid down her back. Her rose-colored mouth was small and delicate, her nose straight, and her forehead high and smooth. Even from where he lay, he noted the thickness of her dark lashes. Somewhere in his fuzzy brain, he realized she was pretty, but he was in too much pain to really care what she looked like. All he knew was that she'd bought him.

Her gaze fixed on him, and she offered a smile. Go ahead and gloat, you little b.i.t.c.h, he thought. Wait until I can get up again.

She dropped the peas and approached the bed. Her eyes were darker blue than his, wide-set, and beautifully shaped. A light spray of freckles decorated her nose and full cheeks.

”I'd say good morning, but I don't think there's anything good about it for you right now,” she said.

Hearing her speak his own language surprised him. He thought she'd spoken it the night before, but after he'd been brought up to the scaffold, the rest of the day was hazy.

”Are you hungry?” she asked.

Food was the last thing on his mind. The thought of movement made him sick, but he needed to p.i.s.s, and his mouth and throat were so dry he nearly choked when he tried swallowing.

”I have salve for your back.” She washed her hands in a basin by the bed, dried them, and reached for a pot of strong-scented, slimy-looking paste.

He drew a sharp breath at her first touch, then managed to relax a bit. The salve was very cool, and though it didn't take away the pain, it made the thought of moving slightly less daunting. Still, when he sat up, he bit his cheek to keep from groaning.

She washed her hands and reached for a chamber pot. Humiliated by the thought of her tending his bodily functions, he nearly refused, but he hadn't a choice.

She must have noted the rage in his eyes because she said, ”We all have to do it.”

”Don't patronize me.”

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