Pirate King by Laurie R. King

Author:Laurie R. King [King, Laurie R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Tags: Literature & Fiction, United States, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Mystery, British Detectives, Historical, Women Sleuths, Thrillers & Suspense, Suspense
ISBN: 0553386751
Amazon: B004J4XGEU
Publisher: Bantam
Published: 2011-09-05T16:00:00+00:00

Later that night, the girls, worn out by fresh air and excitement compounded by a rich meal, turned early to the singular experience of making one’s bed inside a hammock (except for Bibi, who was ensconced into a private cabin so small, her feather bed ran up the walls on three sides). They giggled and wrestled their way into the strange objects, shrieking in merry alarm as the taut canvas cradles flipped them out the other side. Then Annie either analysed the problem or recalled past experience, and loosened the ropes through her hammock’s overhead hooks. Sagging, the object proved less impossible to mount, and the others followed her example. Although a couple of the mothers absolutely refused to submit to the indignity, settling instead onto the hard bunks around the edges, the others were soon bundled triumphantly inside their soft wrappings. Talk and restless adjustments of extremities and blankets quickly gave way before the rocking motion, and soon the hold was nothing but a collection of silent cocoons, swaying in gentle unison.

And me.

After a while, I cautiously descended from my hammock and made my way above decks. I was well accustomed to spending most of a voyage braced in the fresh air, but that night I came up to escape nothing more troubling than the faint odour of fish and the snores of my cabin mates. In fact, I came up because I wanted to enjoy the sensation of a boat that did not make me ill.

The sail-makers had long since bundled their project out of the way. The only persons I could see were a pair of shadowy outlines on the quarterdeck. Adam—who, although by no means the eldest of the crew, was clearly deemed one of the more responsible—was at the wheel; with him was young Jack. I gave them a small wave, but wandered in the other direction towards the bow. There, as far as I could see in the faint lamp-light, I was alone beneath the sails.

I paused halfway up the side, watching the delicate coruscations of the aft lamp dance across the sea, listening to the constant motion of the sails and ropes and all the complex, sophisticated, and nearly anachronistic mechanism of this form of travel. For the first time, I understood why people referred to a hull and its means of propulsion as “she.” Harlequin was alive, our partner in this enterprise. I would have sworn that she was grateful for Randolph Fflytte’s mad, romantic vision, which restored her, even temporarily, to her true self.

I could almost sympathise with his wish for active cannon.

I smiled, and leant over the rail, hoping for a ballet of porpoises, for a—

A hand came down on my shoulder, and I screamed. Like any mindless female who had permitted herself to become oblivious of a world of danger, I squeaked and punched hard at the large, silent, threatening figure who had taken advantage of my idiotic preoccupation with beauty to corner me on the deck.

My arm is strong.

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