Swept Away (The Swept Away Saga, Book One)

Chapter Thirty

"How is the ship coming along?" Sitting up in bed, Tristan grimaced, lightly touching his bandaged shoulder. The doctor had wrapped him tightly around the chest, stating that the wrap would need to be changed once a day and the stitches checked for signs of decay, as well as any reddening of the skin noted. As for the shoulder, it had been stitched together and wrapped on its own, a sling holding his entire arm in place. All of this had been done while Tristan was unconscious, a small miracle in my eyes. After it was all finished, a few of the men had carried him into the captain's tent—now his tent—and laid him to rest among the pillows and blankets.

"It's fine," John Butler answered, dismissing the question smoothly. "The men know what to do. How are ye?"

"Sore," Tristan laughed, wincing slightly. "But alive."

"Aye, that's a good thing to be." John smiled, glancing at me beside his captain. "Would ye like me to send someone to find ye some clothes, Miss Greene?"

I'd spent the entire night by Tristan's side in just my over large shirt, not having any other pants to wear and not willing to leave him to find some.

"Do you think you could find me some pants?"

"Pants? Don't ye want a dress? Something comfortable?"

"You've obviously never worn a corset," I answered, grimacing. "No, pants will do just fine, if you don't mind."

"Tell the men we'll be gathering at sunset as well," Tristan piped in. "To discuss changes on the ship."

"Aye, Captain." Nodding to us, John turned and left, slipping out of the fabrics covering the entrance and leaving us alone once more.

"Changes on the ship?"

"Aye. Some additions to the code that Rodrigues ruled by. I've been none too happy with the state of things for a while now."

"Are you happy to be captain?" I asked quietly, playing with the hem of my shirt. I knew he'd told me before that it wasn't a job he wanted.

"It's not bad, the few hours I've experienced of it anyway," he chuckled. "It's not like I had a choice in the matter. It was either accuse Rodrigues in front of the crew at an official trial and take over captaincy, or murder him in cold blood and get the same treatment myself."

"What do you mean?" Surprise flitted through me at his words. "Pirates kill each other all the time and no one does a thing about it."

"Aye, they do," he confirmed. "But there's a system to it. An official fight, witnessed by the crew and agreed upon by both parties, is legal in our code. It is true that fights break out and men die without ever even consulting the code, but those men usually face consequences from their crew, be it death or abandonment. Pirates don't take kindly to those who kill their own for sport, savvy?"

"So it's legal to kill, but only under certain circumstances. Good to know," I replied sarcastically. "Why even fight the captain, then? What if he'd attacked and you killed him before the crew arrived?"

"I killed him for ye," he answered honestly. "I knew I would have to eventually. It was all I could do to not rip his head from his body when I saw him on ye, attacking ye like that. But I'd told myself I needed to do it right, so as to not leave ye in the hands of another who would do the same. Even so, I near gutted him like a pig right here in this tent."

My skin puckered unpleasantly, my mind instantly going back to these sheets, another man in them with me. It had been so close, so terrifying, what almost happened.

"I feel like I should feel bad that he's dead," I whispered. "Like I should be upset that it was my fault. But I'm not. I'm happy he's gone. Those few minutes—" I stopped, my voice catching, and I suddenly realized I was crying. There had been so many others besides me, women who had actually been harmed and beaten. I was the lucky one who got away, the one who would never know what it was like to be raped by him. And yet, I felt like I did know, my skin crawling with the memory of his hands on me, the sound of ripping fabric ringing in my ears. Yes, I was glad he was dead. I would never have to be afraid of his presence again.