Ship of Destiny

"You could be wetter," Ke

Malta took a long breath. The pirate and the Satrap did not seem much different from one another. If she could manage one, she could manage the other. It was not courage that motivated her to march across the deck and stand before Ke

Her low, even words were meant only for Ke

"Please, King Ke

She felt his gaze on her head, searching for signs of her scar. He answered her callously. "He's being foolish. He takes no harm from a little rain. I do not see where it is your concern."

"You, sir, are being more foolish than he." She spoke boldly, no longer caring if she gave offense. "Forget my concern. Consider your own. Whatever pleasure you take from making him miserable is not worth what you will lose. If you wish the captains of that fleet to see him as valuable, then you should treat him as the Lord High Magnadon, Satrap of all Jamaillia. If you think to bargain him for riches, that is who you must be holding. Not a wet, cranky, miserable boy."

Her eyes flickered once from Ke

"I can arrange that." The woman had a soft contralto voice, more refined than Malta had expected from a pirate's woman. There was intelligence in her glance.

Malta met her gaze frankly, and dropped her a curtsey as she said, "My gratitude to you, lady."

She followed Etta from the foredeck and kept up with her. The wind had stirred a nasty little chop and the wet deck was unsteady, but in her days aboard the Motley, she had finally found her sea legs. She amazed herself. Despite all that was wrong in her life, she took pride in being able to move well on her father's ship. Her father. Resolutely, she banished all thoughts of him. Nor would she dwell on Reyn, so close that she could feel his presence. Eventually, she must stand before him, ruined and scarred, and face the disappointment in those extraordinary copper eyes. She shook her head and clenched her teeth against the sting of tears in her eyes. Not now. She would not feel anything for herself just now. All her thoughts and efforts must go into restoring the Satrap to his throne. She tried to think clearly as she followed Etta into her father's stateroom.

The room was as Malta recalled it from her grandfather's days as captain on Vivacia. She looked in anguish at the familiar furnishings. With a flourish, Etta threw open a richly carved cedar chest. It was layered with garments in fabrics both sumptuous and colorful. At any other time, Malta would have been seized with envy and curiosity. Now she stood and stared sightlessly across the room as Etta dug through it.

"Here. This will serve. It will be large on him, but if we seat him in a chair, no one will notice." She dragged out a heavy scarlet cloak trimmed with jet beads. "Ke

"Undoubtedly," Malta agreed without expression. Personally, she felt it little mattered how a rapist dressed once you knew what he was.

Etta stood, the rich fabric draped over her arm. "The hood is lined with fur," she pointed out. Abruptly she asked, "What are you thinking?"

There was no point in flinging harsh words at this woman. Wintrow had said that Etta knew what Ke

"I am sure Ke

Malta cocked her head at the pirate's woman. "Are we still talking about negotiating to restore the Satrap to the throne?" she asked. "Or do you seek to excuse what he did to my father?" And my aunt, she added silently to herself.

"Your father's behavior needs more excuses than Ke

"Perhaps we all get what we deserve," Malta returned sharply. Her eyes swept up and down Etta, and she saw the woman flush with anger. She experienced a moment's remorse when she glimpsed sudden, unmasked pain in Etta's eyes.

"Perhaps we do," the woman replied coldly. "Bring that chair."

It was, Malta thought as she hefted the heavy chair, a petty revenge. She carried it awkwardly, knocking her shins against its thick rungs as she walked.

REYN KHUPRUS STOOD WELL BACK FROM THE FOREDECK WHERE HE COULD observe without being seen. He watched Malta. The veil obscured his view, but he stared hungrily at her anyway. What he saw pained him, but he could not look away. She smiled at the Satrap as she set a chair in place for him. She turned to the tall woman beside her and indicated with pleasure the scarlet cloak she carried. The Satrap's face did not lose its proud cast. He lifted his chin to her. What came next was like a knife turning in Reyn. Malta unfastened his wet cloak for him, smiling warmly all the while. He could not hear the words, but her tender concern showed on her face. She cast the wet cloak carelessly aside, and then hastened to wrap the Satrap in the grand red cloak. She pulled the hood up well and fastened it warmly around him. With light touches of her hand, she gently pushed the damp locks back from the Satrap's forehead and cheeks. When the Satrap seated himself, she fussed with the fall of the cloak, even going down on one knee to adjust the folds of it.

There was fondness in her every touch. He could not blame her. The Satrap with his pale, patrician countenance and lordly ways was a far more fitting match for Malta Vestrit than a scaled and battered Rain Wilder. With a pang, he recalled that the man had shared the first dance with her at her Presentation Ball. Had her heart begun to turn to him even then? She moved to stand behind the Satrap's chair, and set her hands familiarly to the top of it. The trials they had endured together would undoubtedly have bonded them. What man could long resist Malta's charm and beauty? No doubt, the Satrap felt great gratitude as well; he could not have survived on his own.

Reyn felt as if his heart had vanished from his chest, leaving a gaping hole behind. No wonder she had fled the sight of him. He swallowed hard. She had not even had a word of greeting for him, even as a friend. Did she fear he would hold her to her promise? Did she fear he would humiliate her before the Satrap? He bathed in the pain of watching them. She would never again be his.