“Is it a personal matter to ye, Mr. Murphy?” Jamie asked politely. “Or professional concern?”
“Both, Mr. Fraser, both,” the cook replied, watching the hunt with a fierce attention. He kicked his wooden leg against the side, with a hollow clunk. “They’ve had a taste o’ me,” he said with grim relish, “but I’ve tasted a good many more o’ them!”
The boat was barely visible through the flapping screen of birds, and their screams made it hard to hear anything other than Murphy’s war cries.
“Shark steak with mustard!” Murphy was bellowing, eyes mere slits in an ecstasy of revenge. “Stewed liver wi’ piccalilli! I’ll make soup o’ yer fins, and jelly yer eyeballs in sherry wine, ye wicked barsted!”
I saw Manzetti, kneeling in the bows, take aim with his musket, and the puff of black smoke as he fired. And then I saw Mr. Willoughby.
I hadn’t seen him jump from the rail; no one had, with all eyes fixed on the hunt. But there he was, some distance away from the melee surrounding the boat, his shaven head glistening like a fishing float as he wrestled in the water with an enormous bird, its wings churning the water like an eggbeater.
Alerted by my cry, Jamie tore his eyes from the hunt, goggled for an instant, and before I could move or speak, was perched on the rail himself.
My shout of horror coincided with a surprised roar from Murphy, but Jamie was gone, too, lancing into the water near the Chinaman with barely a splash.
There were shouts and cries from the deck—and a shrill screech from Marsali—as everyone realized what had happened. Jamie’s wet red head emerged next to Mr. Willoughby, and in seconds, he had an arm tight about the Chinaman’s throat. Mr. Willoughby clung tightly to the bird, and I wasn’t sure, just for the moment, whether Jamie intended rescue or throttling, but then he kicked strongly, and began to tow the struggling mass of bird and man back toward the ship.
Triumphant shouts from the boat, and a spreading circle of deep red in the water. There was a tremendous thrashing as one shark was gaffed and hauled behind the small boat by a rope about its tail. Then everything was confusion, as the men in the boat noticed what else was going on in the water nearby.
Lines were thrown over one side and then the other, and crewmen rushed back and forth in high excitement, undecided whether to help with rescue or shark, but at last Jamie and his burdens were hauled in to starboard, and dumped dripping on the deck, while the captured shark—several large bites taken out of its body by its hungry companions—was drawn in, still feebly snapping, to port.
“Je…sus…Christ,” Jamie said, chest heaving. He lay flat on the deck, gasping like a landed fish.
“Are you all right?” I knelt beside him, and wiped the water off his face with the hem of my skirt. He gave me a lopsided smile and nodded, still gasping.
“Jesus,” he said at last, sitting up. He shook his head and sneezed. “I thought I was eaten, sure. Those fools in the boat started toward us, and there were sharks all round them, under the water, bitin’ at the gaffed one.” He tenderly massaged his calves. “It’s nay doubt oversensitive of me, Sassenach, but I’ve always dreaded the thought of losing a leg. It seems almost worse than bein’ killed outright.”
“I’d as soon you didn’t do either,” I said dryly. He was beginning to shiver; I pulled off my shawl and wrapped it around his shoulders, then looked about for Mr. Willoughby.
The little Chinese, still clinging stubbornly to his prize, a young pelican nearly as big as he was, ignored both Jamie and the considerable abuse flung in his direction. He squelched below, dripping, protected from physical castigation by the clacking bill of his captive, which discouraged anyone from getting too close to him.
A nasty chunking sound and a crow of triumph from the other side of the deck announced Murphy’s use of an ax to dispatch his erstwhile nemesis. The seamen clustered round the corpse, knives drawn, to get pieces of the skin. Further enthusiastic chopping, and Murphy came strolling past, beaming, a choice section of tail under his arm, the huge yellow liver hanging from one hand in a bag of netting, and the bloody ax slung over his shoulder.
“Not drowned, are ye?” he said, ruffling Jamie’s damp hair with his spare hand. “I can’t see why ye’d bother wi’ the little bugger, myself, but I’ll say ’twas bravely done. I’ll brew ye up a fine broth from the tail, to keep off the chill,” he promised, and stumped off, planning menus aloud.
“Why did he do it?” I asked. “Mr. Willoughby, I mean.”
Jamie shook his head and blew his nose on his shirttail.
“Damned if I know. He wanted the bird, I expect, but I couldna say why. To eat, maybe?”
Murphy overheard this and swung round at the head of the galley ladder, frowning.
“Ye can’t eat pelicans,” he said, shaking his head in disapproval. “Fishy-tasting, no matter how ye cook ’em. And God knows what one’s doing out here anyway; they’re shorebirds, pelicans. Blown out by a storm I suppose. Awkward buggers.” His bald head disappeared into his realm, murmuring happily of dried parsley and cayenne.
Jamie laughed and stood up.
“Aye, well, perhaps it’s only he wants the feathers to make quills of. Come along below, Sassenach. Ye can help me dry my back.”
He had spoken jokingly, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, his face went blank. He glanced quickly to port, where the crew was arguing and jostling over the remains of the shark, while Fergus and Marsali cautiously examined the severed head, lying gape-jawed on the deck. Then his eyes met mine, with a perfect understanding.
Thirty seconds later, we were below in his cabin. Cold drops from his wet hair rained over my shoulders and slid down my bosom, but his mouth was hot and urgent. The hard curves of his back glowed warm through the soaked fabric of the shirt that stuck to them.
“Ifrinn!” he said breathlessly, breaking loose long enough to yank at his breeches. “Christ, they’re stuck to me! I canna get them off!”
Snorting with laughter, he jerked at the laces, but the water had soaked them into a hopeless knot.
“A knife!” I said. “Where’s a knife?” Snorting myself at the sight of him, struggling frantically to get his drenched shirttail out of his breeches, I began to rummage through the drawers of the desk, tossing out bits of paper, bottle of ink, a snuffbox—everything but a knife. The closest thing was an ivory letter opener, made in the shape of a hand with a pointing finger.
I seized upon this and grasped him by the waistband, trying to saw at the tangled laces.
He yelped in alarm and backed away.
“Christ, be careful wi’ that, Sassenach! It’s no going to do ye any good to get my breeks off, and ye geld me in the process!”
Half-crazed with lust as we were, that seemed funny enough to double us both up laughing.
“Here!” Rummaging in the chaos of his berth, he snatched up his dirk and brandished it triumphantly. An instant later, the laces were severed and the sopping breeks lay puddled on the floor.
He seized me, picked me up bodily, and laid me on the desk, heedless of crumpled papers and scattered quills. Tossing my skirts up past my waist, he grabbed my hips and half-lay on me, his hard thighs forcing my legs apart.