The Huntress ✓

30. Cold Shoulders

The air smelled foul, Bronte was cold and wet, her head ached, and something heavy had settled on her chest. She opened her eyes and looked around. The bars of a cell came into focus. She was in the bowels of a ship. A guttering lantern hung outside the cell, dimly illuminating her surroundings. She sat with her back against the bars in about four inches of rank smelling water, her bootless feet sliding on the slimy surface of the sole. Apparently, the ship had a leak. She turned her head. Sam leaned against the bulkhead. He'd been watching her, but now turned his head to look away.

"Sam, I—" she started, then coughed and couldn't stop for a few minutes. Finally the coughing ceased and when she looked back at Sam he still wouldn't meet her gaze. It was obvious he didn't want to discuss Bart's revelation. She closed her eyes.

They spent the remainder of the journey in silence; save for Bronte's sporadic fits of coughing. Anytime she caught Sam's eyes, they seemed to spark with anger and he'd turn away. She longed to break the tension but didn't know what to say. He must feel betrayed. She wished she would've told him herself but knew she'd let many opportunities pass by. Her fear of rejection had kept her from it.

A fear now justified, for her best friend wouldn't even look at her.

Footsteps approached. Outside the cell a gruff voice mocked, "Hope you ain't got too comfy, cuz yer about ta change rooms."

Metal keys clinked together and the cell door creaked open. Bronte tried to get to her feet, but her knees buckled and she fell into the murky water. Instinct moved Sam to help, and he hurried to her side, not bothering to grab his crutch. The seaman gave him a sharp kick in his wounded leg. Sam yelped and fell against the side of the ship.

"Let the 'lady' walk herself up. She wants to dress like a man, she can act like one," he snipped.

Bronte used the bars as an aid and stood, feeling the world spin. The seaman moved aside to let her pass. She glanced back at Sam. He gazed at the jailor with narrowed eyes; his hand opened and closed, as if he wished it held something—a dagger, perhaps—as he grabbed his crutch and limped after her. The small act of camaraderie comforted her.

Bright sunlight hit her as they breached the upper deck, making her eyes water. A warm breeze wafted over. Bronte tried to pull in the fresh air, but the deep breath caused another coughing fit. Her ribs were sore. Her legs shook unsteadily as she placed one foot in front of the other. Though the day was warm, she shivered in her wet clothes.

Captain Bartholomew stood waiting on deck with a smile. "I hope you enjoyed your visit to the Blood Rose. I'd invite you for another, but, from the looks of you, you'll probably soon be another carcass for the lime pits." His address was as polite as one might address the King of England. "And I did so hope to see your pretty neck stretched."

Bronte, too weak to attempt a retort, noticed Sam was balling his fists. Perhaps their friendship was not lost. The seaman who accompanied them also noticed and kicked Sam's crutch from under his arm, bringing Sam to his knees.

Bart snickered, gave a jerk of his head, and turned to walk away. Two crewmen took Sam's by the arms, dragged him to the side of the ship, and ordered him over the side. Another grabbed Bronte and shoved her forward.

The journey took them from ship to shore, and by wagon to the gates of prison.

Bronte stared ahead blankly as the crewmen handed them over to the guards. Soon she found herself alone in a putrid cell. It was infested with vermin, stank, and had barely enough light to see, but she thought little of it. It was getting more difficult to breathe by the minute. Pain shot through her lungs as she concentrated on taking shallow breaths, to avoid coughing.