He clambered down to drop lightly to the deck. “Well. That was interesting,” he remarked wryly to Vivacia. But the ship was distracted.

“Kennit,” she replied.

“What about him?” Wintrow asked.

“Boy!” The woman's sharp voice came from behind him. He turned to see Etta glaring at him. “The captain wants you. Now.” She spoke peremptorily, but her eyes were not on him. Her gaze locked with Vivacia's. The figurehead's face grew suddenly impassive.

“Wintrow. Stand still,” she ordered him softly.

Vivacia lifted her voice to speak to the pirate. “His name is Wintrow Vestrit,” she pointed out to Etta with patrician disdain. “You will not call him 'boy.' ” Vivacia shifted her eyes to Wintrow. She smiled at him benignly and politely observed, “I hear Captain Kennit calling for you. Would you go to him, please, Wintrow?”

“Immediately,” he promised her and complied. As he walked away from them, he wondered what Vivacia had been demonstrating. He would not make the mistake of thinking that she had been defending him from Etta. No. That exchange had been about the struggle for dominance between the two females. In her own way, Vivacia had asserted that Wintrow was her territory and that she expected Etta to respect that. At the same time, it had pleased her to reveal to the woman that the ship was aware of what went on in the captain's stateroom. From the spasm of anger that had passed over Etta's features, he deduced she was not pleased by it.

He glanced back over his shoulder at them. Etta had not moved. He heard no voices, but they could have been speaking softly. He was struck again by the pirate woman's extraordinary appearance. Etta was tall, her long limbs spare of flesh. She wore her silk blouse and brocaded vest and trousers as casually as if they were simple cotton garments. Her sleek black hair was cut off short, not even reaching her shoulders. She offered neither roundness nor softness to suggest femininity. Her dark eyes were dangerous and feral. From what Wintrow had seen of her, she was savagely tempered and remorseless as a cat. Not one sign of tenderness had he seen in the woman. Nevertheless, all those traits contradicted themselves, combining to make her overwhelmingly female. Never before had Wintrow sensed such power in a woman. He wondered if Vivacia would win her battle of wills with Etta.

Kennit was indeed calling his name, not loudly, but with a panting intensity. Wintrow did not knock but entered immediately. The tall, lean pirate was supine on the bed, but there was nothing restful about his attitude. His hands gripped the linens, knuckles white, as if he were a woman in labor. His head was thrown back against the disheveled pillows. The bared muscles of his chest stood out strongly. His gaping mouth gulped air spasmodically; his chest heaved up and down with the effort. His dark hair and open shirt were soaked in sweat. The sharp tang of it filled the cabin.

“Wintrow?” Kennit gasped out yet again, as he reached the bedside.

“I'm here.” Instinctively, he took one of the pirate's calloused hands in his own. Kennit gripped Wintrow's hand in so violent a clench it was all he could do to keep from crying out. Instead, he returned the grip, deliberately pinching down hard between the pirate's thumb and fingers. With his other hand, he wrapped Kennit's wrist. He tried to set his fingers to the pirate's pulse, but the man's bracelet was in the way. He contented himself with moving his hand to Kennit's forearm. Rhythmically he tightened and then loosened his grip in a slow, calming pattern while he maintained the pinch on Kennit's hand that was supposed to lessen pain. He dared to sit down on the edge of the bed, leaning over Kennit so that he could meet the tortured man's eyes. “Watch me,” he told him. “Breathe with me. Like this.” Wintrow took a slow steadying breath, held it for a count, and then slowly released it. Kennit made a faint effort to copy him. His breath was still too short and too brisk, but Wintrow nodded encouragingly at him. “That's right. That is right. Take control of your body. Pain is only the tool of your body. You can master it.”

He held the pirate's gaze steady with his own. With every breath, he expelled soothing confidence and belief, so that Kennit might breathe it in. Wintrow centered himself within his own body, finding a core that touched his heart and both his lungs. He let the focus of his eyes soften, drawing Kennit's gaze deeper into his own so that he could share his calmness with the man. He tried to make his gaze draw Kennit's pain out and let it disperse in the air between them.

The simple exercises drew his mind back to his monastery. He tried to imbibe peace from those memories, to add their strength to what he was trying to accomplish. Instead, he suddenly felt a charlatan. What was he doing here? Mimicking what he had seen old Sa'Parte do with patients in pain? Was he trying to make Kennit believe he was truly a priest-healer, instead of a brown-robed acolyte? He did not have the complete training to do this simple pain alleviation, let alone remove a diseased leg. He tried to tell himself he was simply doing the best he could to help Kennit. He wondered if he were being honest with himself; perhaps he was only trying to save his own skin.