Sea Witch by Helen Hollick Read Free Book Online

the animal’s sweating hide – the girl grabbed his arm and bit his hand, her teeth clamping into the pad of soft flesh beneath his thumb. The man turned with a yelp of outrage and started hitting her instead, his curses a stream of blasphemy, the blows coming down on her shoulders and back. “I will do what I want with my own horse, you little she-devil!”
    Tempted to ignore it as none of his business Jesamiah scowled then stepped forward. He disliked bullies. His hand encircled the man’s wrist staying the next fall of the crop. “That, Sir, is not a gentlemanly attitude. She is but a girl and I can see, even if you cannot, despite the fact I am a seaman not a horseman, that this animal is lame. He probably stumbled because he is favouring the off-fore.”
    The man wrenched his arm free and made to strike Jesamiah’s face. With a hiss of steel the pirate’s cutlass slid from its scabbard, the tip of the blade pricking through the white cravat beneath the man’s double chin.
    “Perhaps you did not hear me?” Jesamiah repeated, wearing a charming smile but with menace rasping in the tone of his voice. “The horse requires attention.” He called into the smithy. “Ahoy there!”
    The sound of hammering ceasing the smith, a grizzle-haired Dane, sauntered from the shadows of his forge, sweat beading his forehead. He smelt of horse and smoke.
    “This animal is unsound,” Jesamiah said, not lowering his blade. “My friend here would be obliged if you would kindly investigate the problem.”
    Grunting indifferently, the smith lifted the gelding’s forefoot and inspected the inside of the hoof. From the pocket of his leather apron, produced a hoof-pick and prised loose a stone wedged beneath the iron shoe. “Been there some while, I reckon,” he said as he set the foot down, his hand automatically going to the horse’s neck to calm it. “Not surprising he’s lame.”
    “Thank you, I am indebted t’you.” Jesamiah felt in his coat pocket for a coin, flipped it at the smith. “I appreciate your service, even if this tub of melted lard don’t.” He lowered the cutlass, did not sheathe it. “I suggest, Sir, the next time you find your fat backside cannot stay in a saddle, you question whether the fault be your own poor ability, not the creature’s.”
    He slid the cutlass into its scabbard and touched his hat, with his other hand took hold of the girl’s arm and forcefully marched her away before either she or the man realised it. He rounded a corner and set her loose with an aggressive shake.
    “And I would suggest to you, young lady, that you stay out of grown men’s business or you will come to a sorry and sticky end.”
    She stared innocently up at him, her head cocked to one side, her dark eyes meeting square with his. “I am not frightened of imbeciles like him. I can look after myself.”
    “Oh aye?” Jesamiah countered, taking her chin in his hand and twisting her face to the side. The mark was livid across her cheek, spots of blood oozing in several places. “A tad higher and he could have had your eye out, lass.”
    He moved her face the other way, inspecting it more closely. She was no urchin. Her nails were not bitten or dirty, her hair had no sign of lice and her gown, if plain, was of a passable quality. She smelt and looked clean.
    Nor was she as young as he had first assumed. Fourteen, he guessed. Maybe fifteen? She was as thin as a stick, although not malnourished, more along the lines of a late developer – her bosom had not yet rounded, but even in maturity she would probably boast nothing bigger than small apples. Unlike the ripe melons on some of the strumpets he knew. His own height of two inches below six feet exaggerated her petite stature.
    Frowning, he looked at her more intently. There was something familiar about her. “Do I know you?” he asked.
    “We have not met, Surr,” she answered truthfully, giving a bobbed curtsey of good manners. “My guardian has employment