Blackhearts (Blackhearts, #1)(30)

around here, despite what you think.”

The door to Teach’s chambers flew open, and he stood

there, his nightshirt stuffed into a pair of breeches, his feet bare.

“Is everything all right?” he asked, holding a candlestick aloft.

Anne bent quickly and picked up the broken porcelain, her

back to him, the skin below her left eye stinging.

“Fine, sir. The clumsy girl simply dropped a cup,” Margery

said.

“What do you have there?” he asked her.

“Sheets and linens, sir. As well as some of your shirts an’

breeches. I was just about to bring them to you.”

“Surely that could wait until morning,” he said.

At last Anne stood, but she kept her face averted. She felt





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rather than saw the ominous look Margery shot in her direction.

“Aye, it could, sir, but with Anne being gone so much these

days, there’s simply no time to rest if we want to get everything done.”

The old witch made it sound as if she and the others were

overworked. Without the master in the house and with Teach still sick, the cooking had been kept to a minimum. And Margery had both Sara and Mary to help her with the cleaning.

“Yes, well, why don’t you take that tray from her, Margery,

and return to the kitchen. Retire for the evening. I’m sure the

beds can wait until morning.”

“Why, thank you, sir. I greatly appreciate it,” Margery said

smugly.

It was all Anne could do to keep a civil tongue in her head

as Margery smiled, an evil glint in her eyes. They exchanged

loads, and Margery strolled down the hallway, toward the back

stairs, humming a tune the entire time.

“Bring me my clothing,” Teach said, holding out his hands.

Anne’s chest tightened as she approached him, and she

angled her face, careful to keep it in the shadows. But like a

Miskito Indian, the young master was far too observant. He

sucked in a deep breath when he saw her. Taking her chin in his

hand, he brought the candlestick closer.

“She did this to you,” he said, his eyes flashing. Taking

Anne by the hand, he led her back into his room. She sat down

in the now familiar armchair as he wet a cloth and dipped it





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into water, before holding it up to her burning skin.

Anne flinched.

He cursed beneath his breath, and a pulse beat at his temple.

“I’ll speak to her. I’ll tell her that if she ever lifts a hand to you again, I’ll—”

“You’ll do what?” Anne asked, unable to keep her silence

any longer. “Send her packing? Try to replace her with someone

else? Who’s to say the next person you hire will be any better?”

Anne shook her head, pushing his hand away. “If you say anything to her, it will only make matters worse.”

“This is my fault,” he said, frowning.

“How? You could not help getting sick. You were too weak

to—” Anne began, but just then she spied something unusual

over his shoulder. In his haste to get up, he’d thrown the cover-let back. At the foot of his bed were two large stones, round and smooth. The sheets were marred with ash. Anne pushed Teach aside and felt one of them. It was still warm to the touch.

Turning on him, her eyes wide with shock, she pointed an

accusing finger. “You lied about your fever?”

He straightened slowly, his expression masked. “Not ini—

tially. That first day you came to me, I was extremely sick. You saw that.”

“Yes, but by the fourth day some of your color had

returned.”

He nodded.

“Were you still sick?” she asked.





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He had the decency to flush. “I was truly ill in the beginning, but I might have nursed it along a bit.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I needed an excuse to speak with you,” he said, as

if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Her heart skipped a beat. “About what, sir?”

“About anything. Everything. I enjoy conversing with you.

Don’t look at me like that. Is my request so distasteful that you’d choose to return to your chores rather than spend another minute in my company?”

Eight days ago she might have said yes. Now she wasn’t so

sure. “If I don’t do my chores, no one else will, sir.”

He waved his hand. “Margery can do them.”

Anne nearly laughed out loud, pointing to the inflamed

side of her face. “Yes, we’ve seen how much she enjoys that.

Margery is the housekeeper. I’m simply the maid. I would never

ask her to fulfill my duties.”

“You said it yourself the other day, you’re not a common

maid, now, are you?”

Anne remained silent, for she did not know how to respond.

She wasn’t sure what she was most upset about—the fact that