A Place of Birds

Running back to the companionway Susanna sped down the stairs into the day cabin.

“What are they doing?” she demanded breathlessly.

Leaning on his hands Lowell was studying a chart. “What are who doing?” The wound on his forehead had healed cleanly leaving a thin scar that showed livid against his tanned skin.

“Mr Binney.” She tried to catch her breath. “And Mr Lockhead is giving the crew guns.”

“That's right.”

“No. It's all wrong.” Her reaction was partly conditioning – Quakers were adamantly opposed to war – but it was partly fear. What she had learned about him for herself was so different from the rumours. But he was jeopardising this new image. “You can't. You have no right to take the life of another human being.”

Impatience flickered across his face. “In these waters the choice is simple: to kill or be killed. English laws do not apply here. I'm not looking for a fight. But I have a moral duty to protect my ship and my crew, even – “ one corner of his mouth rose, - “my passengers.”

“Yes, but – “

“No.” His smile vanished and his voice cracked like a whip. “No buts . Pirates don't capture. They kill. Do you understand? No prisoners. With one exception.” His tone sent a chill feathering down her spine. “Pretty young women.” The bleakness of his features reminded her of Cornish granite. “I've seen passenger ships after a pirate raid. I'd kill you myself sooner than let you fall into their hands.”

Susanna flinched back, hands flying to her mouth. His gaze held hers. His eyes, blue-grey and flinty, filled her vision, her mind, her world. She was drawn like a breath past the icy barrier into black velvet depths that weren't cold at all. The heat bathed her. It permeated her body like a golden flame, filling her with sensations so exquisitely sweet she shimmered, and ached, and burned.

“Susanna?” His voice, ragged and harsh, jerked her back to reality. Blinking, as if she had woken suddenly from a deep sleep she clasped her arms around her body, trying to stop the trembling.

I'd kill you myself sooner than… The moment the words were out, he was forced to recognise what had driven him to say them. He had never met anyone like her. He had known many women who lived independent lives, married women who did so on their husband's money. She was different. A little muddled perhaps, and naïve, but clearly intelligent. She certainly had spirit. And courage. Not once had she complained. She made him laugh. It was a long time since he'd done that. What was he doing? There was no place for her in his life.

Looking into her eyes he recognised the hunger he knew she didn't yet understand, and felt the answering tug inside himself. She was his for the taking. Cursing the fates for bringing them together, and himself for a fool, he deliberately turned his back on her.

“If there's nothing else?” He bent over the charts again, his tone defying her to linger. Her soft gasp pierced him like a blade. He waited, leaning on stiffened arms, his nails digging into the underside of the wooden table. He heard the whisper of her dress as she left the cabin, heard her footsteps stumble on the brass stairs. Only then did he close his eyes and allow his head to drop.