Swept Away (The Swept Away Saga, Book One)

Chapter Twenty-Three

We made port a few days later, at a city known for not checking a ship's credentials when it came to buying and selling goods. The plan was to stay for bit, recuperate from all our time at sea and celebrate the capture of two ships—the one I'd been on and one other. The crew seemed generally ecstatic about this, many of the men speaking fondly of a brothel they planned to spend the whole time at. Captain Rodrigues appeared to share their sentiment, joining in on the conquest stories. It made me feel sick to hear them talk of the things they'd supposedly done. In the end I kept to myself as everything was unloaded, until I was among the last to leave for shore.

"Not eager to get laid, eh, Samuel?" one of the men joked as he climbed into the long boat that was about to be lowered down. "That's okay, there's plenty o' whores to go around!" All of the men laughed at that, their excitement bringing a small smile to my face despite my disgust. In all fairness, the women they were talking about did have sex for money, so there wasn't really that much for me to fuss over. If the months I'd spent here had taught me anything, the seventeenth century was nothing like the twenty-first. I'd come to accept the fact that there was nothing I could do about customs and tastes that seemed purely archaic to me.

Sighing, I turned from the long boat, having a strange feeling that if I were to depart with that group I would find myself carted off to the brothel with them, unable to voice my thoughts on the matter. Tristan was on board somewhere, overseeing all the unloading with the record keeper. I'd never seen them completely empty out the ship before, which was a massive undertaking that gobbled up hours of time. After it was all on shore and stored in the warehouse, Tristan would then go make the payment arrangements with the dock master and the merchant seller.

All of this information had me feeling like I was most likely on my own for the evening. Father Torres had left as soon as possible, wanting to go to church and confess his sins. I had the sneaking suspicion that he liked being a pirate and felt he needed forgiveness for it.

I made my way to the stairs, intent on staying in my hammock for a time, thinking it best to avoid any of the men on the island. As I neared the officer's quarters, the sound of a voice coming from Tristan's room made me pause. It was definitely a man's voice, one that sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it. Curiosity getting the better of me, I stood outside the door, listening to the conversation.

"You can trust me," the voice was coaxing. "No harm or ill will come from telling me where it is."

"Ye know I can not tell ye." Tristan sounded ruffled. "It's against my orders. The Grand Master would have my head if he knew I was even admitting I know where it is!"

"You didn't admit it. We all know you know it, you're the one that does the hiding. All we do is protect it on the way there, make sure you have an alibi when you slip away. We're a team, Tristan! Don't hold this back from us."

"I will not tell ye," he replied forcibly. "And that is the end of it. Do not ask again, or I'll be inclined to share these little conversations, savvy?"

"Don't make us enemies." There—the sharp tone of the voice had finally aided me in placing its owner. Thomas Randall was in the room, and he apparently wanted something Tristan had very badly.

"We're not enemies, Thomas." Tristan sighed. "As ye said, we're a team. And a team must trust its captain. Ye are no captain."

"I could be," Thomas snarled. "I could get this whole crew to vote me in, and then you'd have to do as I asked, or I'll make sure you never see Oak Isle again."

"Yer on shifty ground, Thomas," Tristan growled. "Be careful what threats ye make, and to whom. I won't be shoved around by an English dog who thinks he owns everyone around him."